


The Golden Snuffbox

by Laramie, LinkWorshiper



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-04-29 09:25:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 46,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5122904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laramie/pseuds/Laramie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinkWorshiper/pseuds/LinkWorshiper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story begins with an ending. After Sybil dies, Lord Grantham makes a decision that will change more lives than he could have foreseen. One of those lives is Thomas Barrow.</p><p>AU jumping off from Sybil's death. Obviously, warning for discussion of Sybil's death and its aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I, Chapter 1: Sybil

**Author's Note:**

> So! Wow! This has been a long time in the making. At 45k words, it's the longest thing I've ever written.
> 
> I owe great thanks to LinkWorshiper, who not only beta'd this monster but has also done 6 illustrations that I commissioned for the fic, so keep an eye out for those.

**August 1920**

Sybil Crawley was the youngest of three of the most beautiful sisters in the county.

Beauty is a matter of opinion, of course, and it was Sybil's opinion that her two older siblings were the most beautiful women in England.

Sybil always secretly believed that being the youngest of three pretty sisters made her sound like a faerie-tale character, and indeed she got her faerie-tale in the shape of one Tom Branson. In time, he made her Sybil Branson, and their love grew like a flower in the sun until the evidence of it swelled in her stomach and made her heart brim with joy.

She got her happy-ever-after, but it was domestic, and short; and soon Death took her for its own, leaving behind a child and a family to mourn her.

At the end, she asked: "Can I be a faerie-tale now, daddy?"

"Of course, my love," her father replied. "Of course you can."

Lord Grantham did not cry for his daughter that night. Lord Grantham had a plan.


	2. Part I, Chapter 2: Beryl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mother said you would stop anything bad happening!"

Lord Grantham stormed into the wood. "BERYL!" he thundered. "BERYL! Come here now!" His footsteps shook the ground; his voice vibrated through the warm evening air _. Beryl,_ the trees whispered _. Beryl._ Soon the call reached the ear of Beryl Patmore as she watched a robin hopping across the dry ground.

She responded to his call, following the tremors of his voice through the leaves to find him on one of the few foot-worn paths that wound through the trees.

He looked older than she had last seen him, worn by care. He had grown, but still looked small surrounded by trees with jagged branches like lightning bolts. "Hello, Robert."

"Sybil is dead," he spat. "You have to bring her back. You were supposed to protect us!"

"I cannot stop death," Beryl countered bluntly, bristling at his rudeness.

"Mother said you would stop anything bad happening!"

"I don't think she did," Beryl blustered, because she remembered it rather differently. She remembered a young boy clutching his mother's hand, afraid of every shadow in the wood. _'Take care of this silver birch and Beryl will take care of you. You'll never scrape your knee or bump your head when you're in this wood, as long as you're good to her and the tree.'_

"I have not even seen you for twenty years," Beryl said now. "You have never brought your children here."

"And I regret it, but now Sybil is dead, and you WILL bring her back." His fists were clenched, holding the tension in his body.

"I cannot," Beryl repeated, disgusted at his impertinence. How dare he presume to give her orders, how _dare_ he think himself above her?

"You will BRING HER BACK," Robert insisted in a voice that was stretched tight with his misplaced anger. His eyes flashed before he spoke: "Or with God as my witness I will cut down that beloved tree of yours and fence the stump with iron."

Beryl bared her teeth and all but snarled at him, the thought of it clenching at her heart in fear. "You will not."

"I will do it, you miserable creature, unless you bring my daughter back to life."

They faced off in the grey light, the owner of the greatest house in Yorkshire and the shorter woman who stood barefoot on the leaf mould. Around them, rain began to fall, pattering heavily onto the lush August leaves.

Beryl reached out and took two objects out of the air. "I will give you a cake. Eat half yourself and put the other half between your daughter's lips. Lock her in her room alone and she will rise with tomorrow's sun as though she had never been hurt."

"Which one?" Robert looked greedily between the cakes she held in each hand.

"Whichever you think is more powerful," she said, and as Robert started forwards with outstretched hands she added: "Take the small one with my blessing or the large one with my curse."

Robert hesitated, then took the larger cake in his grasping hands and at once turned to leave. "Thank you," he threw over his shoulder. He did not see her flinch.


	3. Part I, Chapter 3: Cora

Cora was worried, even through her grief. After Sybil died, her husband strode directly out of the house, not even taking an overcoat against the oncoming dark clouds, which were heavy with rain. She had not seen him since.

It had been almost an hour now, and she wanted him home, wanted to cling to him at this darkest hour of her life. Instead, she sat with her daughter, watching the waning sunlight tricking warmth into her pale skin, before gradually fading away.

By the time Robert returned, Sybil's cheeks were as grey as a gravestone, and Cora could hardly bear to look at her, but refused to leave even when Mary and Edith begged her to join them downstairs. Robert swept back into the house, swift as a hurricane and just as unstoppable.

"Go downstairs, Cora, love," he said in a voice that would not accept no for an answer.

Cora found herself being ushered out of the door, shocked at the odd determination in Robert's face.

"Robert, what are you doing?" she demanded.

"Cora, if you've ever trusted me, then let me do this," he said gravely.

This gave Cora pause: Robert had had such blind faith in the so-called expert doctor, and it had led to this - her daughter lying motionless in her bed, never to rise. Cora was not sure she could ever trust Robert again, but he could hardly do more damage now, so Cora went downstairs. She looked back for only a few seconds to see him touching Sybil's face. ' _Forget him_ ,' Cora told herself, descending the stairs.

She resolved to ask her questions later, and went to press her living daughters to her breast. She was struck with desperation for them, a need to know that they were safe and unharmed. They clung to each other, and would have clung to Tom too, except he would only sit numbly on the sofa, holding his new daughter in his arms and staring off into a corner.

Robert entered the library and joined their embrace. "I have locked Sybil in her room," he said shakily. "And no one must disturb her."

"But why, papa?" asked Mary, startled.

"I cannot explain, but there she must stay."

"What about burying her? She cannot remain in her room forever," Edith pointed out.

"Just give me until the morning, please. After that… after that we will do just what is right."

"Until the morning?" Cora repeated.

"I have given her a blanket," Robert choked. "So she will not be cold." At this, the three women broke into tears, and Tom pressed Sybbie closer to his chest.

Over the course of the following hours, every family member spent some time at Sybil's door, but Robert had taken the key and refused to move on his request of Sybil not being disturbed until the morning. Cora had no idea what had taken hold of him. He would not allow any talk of funeral arrangements, and Cora feared that he had had some kind of breakdown, unable to accept that his darling daughter was dead. He spent hours sitting with his back to Sybil's door, unable to eat, unable to sleep that night, speaking hardly more than a word.

Cora missed not only her daughter, but her husband, too.

 


	4. Part I, Chapter 4: Robert

Lord Grantham sat outside his dead daughter's room all that night, moving only to use the bathroom or gaze at the moon outside the window: only the barest sliver of it remained. ' _Tomorrow_ ,' he repeated to himself endlessly; ' _In the morning I will open this door and my darling will be waiting, eyes bright with life.'_ He could not bear to doubt this conviction.

In the sun's first watery light, he turned the key with shaking fingers and opened the door to find -

First he found the smell, faint tendrils of it crawling out into the still air. It was a smell Lord Grantham knew well from his time in the army, and as such it took barely a glance at Sybil's pale, stiff body for him to know.

Sybil was dead. She was not coming back.

Cora came to him while he was resting his head on Sybil's closed door. She stood behind him and clutched his arm.

"I want to bury my daughter," she said gently but firmly. "Grassby's will be here in a few hours."

"Right you are, my love," he acquiesced, and allowed himself to be led away. He felt so hollow he thought he might never again be able to stand without her steadying hand.

In the coming days, he spent as much time with his new granddaughter, young Sybbie, as he could, sitting mostly in silence in the nursery with Tom. The house routine was in disarray, with no-one caring to follow it.

He rose from a chair on the third morning without her and nearly fell over.

Cora gazed at him with concern from where she still lay in bed. "You should eat something, dear. I know it's hard; we're all struggling. But I don't think you've eaten a bite in three days."

"Haven't I?" he asked vaguely.

"Barrow said he struggled to persuade even water past your lips."

"Did he?" Something was nudging through the fog in his brain, floating closer into his consciousness. If he could only remember what it was.

"You're away with the faeries," Cora complained, and suddenly it broke through the haze and came clearly into his mind.

He knew exactly what was happening to him, and it was not just grief, not all of it.

_'Never eat faerie food'_ , came his nanny's voice, reading playfully from a book - but there was nothing playful about this warning. A human who ate faerie food would be unable to eat human food ever after - would, in short, starve to death. Anger began to simmer deep in his gut. Beryl had given him faerie food. And, like a fool, he had eaten it.

What would he do now?

He sat on the bed to put an arm around his wife, and thought about Sybil's laughing face. He had once dreaded the obstinate spark in her eyes, but would now do anything to see it again, even for a second.

His eye caught a plain gold snuffbox, rectangular in shape and about the size of his palm, sitting on Cora's bedside table. It was one of his own; she had presumably taken it out to look at because she knew as well as he did that Sybil had been with him when he had bought it at a small auction house in Ripon.

_'Magic snuffbox,'_ the auctioneer had winked. _'Bring good luck to your lovely lady.'_

And Sybil, being five, had not understood the idea of talking up goods for a gullible audience. She had been convinced that the little golden box was magic, so he had bought it to please her.

But what if the auctioneer had been right?

Rapidly, a plan formed in his mind: a way to protect himself. He rose abruptly from the bed. "I have a small errand to run," he told Cora, picking up the snuffbox and heading for the door. "I shall not be long."

He went straight down to the kitchens, coming across a hallboy en route and sending the baffled boy scurrying off to the ice house to collect a handful.

All downstairs were shocked to see him; he waved impatiently for them to sit, and addressed the cook. "Mrs Morris, I'm sorry to disturb you, but I find myself in need of some honey, rather urgently."

"Of course, my Lord," she replied, giving a startled curtsey. "I'll fetch some for you right away." She bustled out of the room just as the hallboy returned, bowing unreasonably low as he held up a metal pail overflowing with ice crystals.

"Thank you," Lord Grantham said absently, taking the pail, and the boy scuttled away.

He took a fist-sized piece of ice in his handkerchief and waited until Mrs Morris returned. He was behaving strangely, he knew, and would be the subject of gossip the moment he left the servants' quarters, but he could not bring himself to care. His daughter was dead and a brownie was trying to make him starve to death - he had more important things to worry about than being talked about amongst his servants.

He accepted the honey and left the house, heading off in the direction of the woods. When he was out of sight of the house, he put a knuckle-sized lump of ice and a dollop of honey in the snuffbox.

The noon light became dappled as he entered the trees, flickering like fire against the golden box he carried.

"Beryl!" he called, pushing down his anger. "I wish to speak with you!"

He rounded a tree no different to any other, and there she was, sitting on the ground among the undergrowth.

"How is your daughter?" the brownie asked, looking up at him slyly.

"You could not save her, and that's fine. Perhaps I should not have asked it of you." He held out the snuffbox. "I have brought you a gift."

Beryl eyed it suspiciously, but she could not hide the glitter of greed in her face. "Why?"

"As a token of my good will," he lied.

Beryl could not tear her covetous gaze from the gold; her hands reached out apparently of their own accord, and just as her fingers closed around the box Lord Grantham added: "For services rendered."

As the box left his grip, Beryl shuddered as though she had been plunged into freezing water.

Lord Grantham spoke rapidly, making the spell he had improvised from only the haziest memory of childhood faerie-tales: "I bind your hands with honey, that they may not harm. I bind your mind and magic with gold, that you may not plot harm. I bind your feet with ice that they may not leave and allow your harm to be wrought. Three times bound, you are my servant, and will treat me as you ought."

He gripped her elbow and led her unresisting body out of the woods.

"How?" she whispered hoarsely. "You are not magic."

And so he wasn't. The golden snuffbox, however, was.

 


	5. Part II, Chapter 5: Thomas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas goes out for a walk and finds much more than he bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter: the first of six original illustrations by linkworshiper. Are you excited? 'Cause I'm excited to show you.

**March 1922**

It had been a hard day. It had started with Alfred tripping down half a flight of stairs, meaning that, _even though it was his half-day_ , Thomas had to fill in as footman for him at luncheon. Then Lady Mary's latest suitor, Mr Fox, had arrived unexpectedly. Mary had invited several men to the Abbey lately; Thomas had a feeling she was just enjoying the sensation of being wanted, now that Matthew had been with Lavinia for so long. Most of the family disapproved of Mr Fox as a match but tolerated him as a person. Edith seemed too busy being jealous that he liked Mary instead of her to form any unbiased opinion.

When Thomas went downstairs, on his way out for an evening walk, he heard shouting from the kitchen. He lingered in the corridor to listen. Uneasiness gripped the base of his spine; as a child, he had learned that shouting was always his fault, and it was an assumption that he had never managed to lose.

He was not the subject of Mrs Morris's wrath, however.

"You stupid child!" the cook was shouting. "How am I to make breakfast for Mr Fox tomorrow with no eggs?"

"I'm sorry, Mrs Morris, I didn't mean to drop them," came Daisy's tearful voice, and Thomas felt a stab of pity for the poor girl. She was clumsy, more so when nervous, and had an unsettling habit of appearing stupid right up until she said something very wise; but her heart was in the right place. He often wondered if she had the same assumption about shouting as he did. He tried to defend the kitchen maid when he could, but, given that he had little direct authority over either of them, there was not much that he could say.

"I'm going to check the pantry again and if there are none left, you'll have to crawl out at the first break of sunlight tomorrow to fetch some more."

When Thomas had heard her leave the room, he went in to see Daisy leaning close to Mrs Patmore, her eyes wide. "I can't do that, I have to make the tarts for morning tea. I shan't have time to buy eggs."

"Can't you go tonight?" Thomas suggested, making Daisy's eyes snap to him in alarm.

"I can't go out alone in the _dark_ ," she said. "Where would I even get them from at this time?"

Thomas pulled out his pocket watch. "It's only six o'clock. Mr Palmer often stays late at the market, if he hasn't sold everything." He paused, considering. "I'm off for a walk now anyway. I can get some eggs for you, if you like."

Daisy stared at him as though he had just announced that he had a spare half-a-million pounds if anyone wanted it. It was not, he had to admit, at all unpleasant. And it was always useful to have someone owe you a favour, even if it was only Daisy.

"Would you really, Mr Barrow?" she asked wondrously, before stamping her feet in delight. "Oh thank you, thank you!"

Thomas set off with a fistful of petty cash and strict instructions to acquire a receipt. He took his favourite route to the village, through the woods. They seemed quieter than usual, though he could not quite put his finger on why he had that impression. A few bats flitted close by; a couple of times, there was an abrupt rustling of undergrowth as his footsteps startled some furry creature.

In the village, he found Mr Palmer just packing up his stall, but he sold Thomas his last two boxes of eggs. He glanced up at Thomas surreptitiously as he wrote the receipt. Thomas had long suspected that Mr Palmer was attracted to him, but the man was married with three children, and Thomas was not willing to feel like someone's second-best. Not again.

Taking the paper bag, Thomas held it carefully out of brushing-range of his legs as he walked through the village. It was in full darkness now, though the moon was fat and a few friendly lights shone from windows and streetlamps. He could hear music, faintly, and followed the sound of it until he reached the village green.

Some kind of performance or meet appeared to be in progress: a dozen or so musicians surrounded the grassy area, playing flutes, violins, fiddles, a pipe-and-tabor, and, improbably, an upright piano, which sat at a tilt directly on the grass. Within their circle, thirty or more people danced in a group, appearing to be one mass coming together in different combinations, though Thomas's watching eyes could discern no particular coordination or pattern between them.

The fast, unrestrained music took hold of him by the heart, making it beat in time. The tune was chaotic, multi-layered, the most joyful thing he had ever heard. It was no surprise to him to realise that every one of the dancers wore a grin.

He caught flashes of a fair-haired man among the dancers, whose wide smile creased the corners of his eyes. His unbuttoned white shirt flapped open as he whirled, revealing snatches of his muscled chest. He was captivating, fitting perfectly into the mass of people and yet so far above them it took Thomas's breath away. Their eyes met a couple of times, each glance causing a jolt low down in Thomas's stomach.

The music transitioned smoothly into a far slower pace - so naturally that Thomas was barely aware of the change until it had happened. The other instruments had faded away until only the piano remained, dropping quivering notes into the air like light rain on a still pond.

In the gentle music, he saw the man leave the group of dancers and approach a table laden with drinks, and Thomas resolved to speak to him. Just to say hello, perhaps to ask what was happening. ' _All perfectly innocent,'_ Thomas reassured himself as he took the few steps towards the blonde man.

The fragile weight of the eggs in his hand was an oddly grounding sensation, reminding him that he had come here for such practical purposes.

Thomas's heart beat in the back of his throat as the blonde man turned at his approach to bestow him with a wide smile. He was even more attractive at close quarters, from the hot glow of his skin to the athletic shape of his body.

Thomas swallowed dryly. "Hello."

"Hello," the man responded confidently. "What's your name?"

"Thomas - Thomas Barrow," he replied, though he usually introduced himself as _'Thomas Barrow, under-butler at Downton Abbey'_.

"Like Tom Thumb!" the other man said delightedly, lamplight reflecting merrily in his rosy cheeks. He made a deep bow. "Delighted to meet you, Sir Thomas," he said as he rose. "Jimmy Kent, at your service."

"Nice to meet you, Jimmy Kent." Thomas reached for a jug of unknown but presumably alcoholic liquid, intending to pour himself a glass.

Jimmy reached out and stopped his wrist. When Thomas looked at him in surprise he said: "Would you care to dance?"

Thomas opened his mouth to refuse - slow-dancing with a man in a public place was hardly discreet - and found himself saying: "I would like that."

He put the bag of eggs on the table, and Jimmy replaced it with his own hand. As they joined the throng of people, the gentle voice of a violin joined the piano's tinkling notes. Jimmy started them into a loose waltz hold, his hand around Thomas's back, although technically Thomas should have done that, because he was a few inches taller. Jimmy's hands were warm, and just slightly sweaty.

To be held so carefully, as though the touch - as though _Thomas_ \- was something that _mattered_ , was the stuff of Thomas's fantasies, but he faltered anxiously all the same as he put a reciprocal hand on Jimmy's shoulder. They began to move in time to the music.

"What if -" Thomas began, but it was all he managed to get out before Jimmy pulled them closer together - it was not strictly a waltz hold any more - until their bodies were pressed together from their chests to the front of their thighs, and put his lips close to Thomas's ear.

" _Don't worry_ ," he whispered, and Thomas decided that just for once, just for tonight, he wouldn't. He did not even let himself worry about Jimmy's intentions, about whether he was reading this situation wrong - the important thing, he told himself, was this moment, slow-dancing on the green with a handsome man, the music playing around them and within them.

There was no beat to the music, per se, but the rhythm of the soaring violin was unmistakeable, and they moved together flawlessly, shifting their weight from foot to foot.

Jimmy's shirt had gaped as he lifted his hands for the hold, revealing a wide slice of his tanned chest, against which Thomas was pressed. Thomas ached at the raw sensuality, at the possibilities it suggested.

He kept his eyes on Jimmy's gentle blue ones, and saw not a trace of self-consciousness or fear there. It made Thomas want to be brave too. The other man's gaze was so frank, almost searching; Jimmy looked at him as though he wanted to figure him out. As though he was _interested_. It made all the other people disappear, until there was only Thomas, and Jimmy, and the music.

Thomas did not know how long they danced for; it could have been hours, it could have been days, but it felt like mere moments had passed when the other instruments began to rejoin the music. First came the flutes, playing the same notes as the violin, then the tabor began like a heartbeat within an embrace. It increased the tempo a little, and Thomas became aware of his surroundings again. He realised that he had been staring transfixed at Jimmy, and looked about him as the dancing became more energetic, taking a deep breath as though he had surfaced from deep underwater.

"You like to read then?" he asked Jimmy, referencing his Tom Thumb comment from earlier.

Jimmy smiled as though that was amusing. "I know the stories. Are you a reader?"

"I spend most of my wages on books, or cigarettes," Thomas admitted, though it was only half of the truth. He did not want to tell Jimmy the other half.

Jimmy frowned slightly, narrowing his eyes. "Where do you work?"

He asked the question as though it was an effort, making Thomas wonder if he was a toff. "I'm under-butler," he said, tipping his head in the general direction of Downton Abbey to indicate where. At least, he thought it was the right direction, but his head was still spinning faster than they were so he couldn't be sure.

"Where do you live?" Thomas asked, in case he really was a toff.

"In the wood," Jimmy replied, leaning in to nudge his nose against the corner of Thomas's jaw.

"You're homeless?"

"No. I live in the wood."

Familiar with pride, Thomas dropped the subject, and turned his attention to the far more interesting matter of Jimmy's hand. Specifically, the one that was slipping slowly down Thomas's back, coming to rest right at the base of his spine, as though to remove any last trace of his earlier childish anxiety.

There was certainly nothing childish about what Thomas was thinking now.

"I'll be going soon," Jimmy said.

Thomas licked his lips. "Can I see you again?"

"Yes. Come and see me tomorrow, in the wood. The Abbey's not far."

Jimmy wanted to see him again. He was handsome and he moved like he knew it and he had a quick smile as bright as midday sun, and _he wanted to see Thomas again_.

"Tomorrow," Thomas promised.

He barely remembered the walk home that night, but he knew he had fallen asleep with a smile on his face for the first time in many years, and woke up the next morning with the same. He dressed carefully, and took a moment to lay a hand over his own spine, where he had felt Jimmy's touch the night before, before shaking himself and leaving his room.

When he descended the stairs for breakfast, Daisy thanked him again for buying the eggs, and Thomas tried not to look too happy at the memory of where the errand had led.

He found it easier to slip on his mask of professionalism while he was dressing Lord Grantham, accustomed as he was to suppressing any emotion that might provoke comment (excepting when that was his sole intention). Directly after, he took Grantham's breakfast up from Mrs Patmore before supervising the footmen, Alfred and Theo, as they brought up Mrs Morris's toast and crumpets for everybody else, with scrambled eggs for Lady Mary's latest suitor, Mr Fox.

Mr Fox was a strange man - a self-made businessman of new money and impeccable manners. He loved to hunt, and seemed to feel that Mrs Morris's scrambled eggs were the only valid reason for being awoken in the morning.

Lord Grantham, on the other hand, had not eaten a bite from Mrs Morris since the day Sybil had died. Nobody knew why, though speculation had been rife until the subject was eventually exhausted and the servants simply accepted and adjusted to the new routine. To start with, the most popular theory had been that Mrs Morris had tried to poison him, but of course that did not explain why she still cooked for the rest of the family. Mrs Morris had no wisdom to offer; Lord Grantham had simply told her that he was taking on a new cook for himself, but that she was not to worry for her job as she would still cook for everybody else. Though she had been insulted at first, eventually even she grudgingly accepted it.

In addition, Lord Grantham was oddly jumpy around the subject of Mrs Patmore. Occasionally, he would leap up at dinner to insist that Carson guarantee personally that the other diners' meals were definitely made by Mrs Morris - and so some people muttered that perhaps he was consuming some form of mysterious stimulant with Mrs Patmore's assistance.

Thomas had listened without comment to all the gossip in the beginning, and even started a few scandalous rumours of his own in the village pub (that Mrs Patmore was supplying Grantham with fertility-enhancing drugs was his personal favourite, though it had not gained much momentum) but, eighteen months in to the odd arrangement, his main concern was that he was now required to serve Lord Grantham personally at meals. This irritated him, since he felt that it was a little outside an under-butler’s job description to serve at _every_ meal, but if it made him more useful and less vulnerable to losing his job then Thomas would not complain.

But even serving at meals was not enough to dampen his mood that day, not with the prospect of meeting Jimmy in the woods to look forward to.

He practically skipped out of the door when the servants' lunch time arrived, telling Mr Carson that he was feeling a little unwell and was going to have a walk to clear his head. Mr Carson said only that he had better be back in time to serve upstairs. Almost floating down the driveway, Thomas turned up his coat collar against the chill before turning left onto the path into the woods.

It had all seemed so plausible the night before, but as Thomas entered the shelter of the wood, he realised how difficult it would be to find a single person amongst the trees. It was almost as bad as looking for a dog, he thought wryly, recalling the time he had hidden Isis so that he could find her again and impress Lord Grantham, only to lose her and discover that Lord Grantham already had her back.

And then there was the question - did Jimmy _truly_ live here, amongst the fading snowdrops and the smell of earth? Again, it had seemed natural enough the night before, but he realised now that Jimmy's clothes had been good quality and clean, and where did one find a washing dolly in the middle of a wood?

For a moment, Thomas thought he saw a raven out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked over he saw that it was a blackbird.

"Where are you, Jimmy Kent?" he sighed to himself. Consulting his pocket watch, he saw that twenty minutes had passed already; he would have to start back in the next ten minutes if he wanted to avoid a ticking-off (and worse) from Mr Carson.

He looked up from putting the pocket watch away, and there Jimmy was, sitting on a waist-high tree branch. His legs dangled down and he was looking straight at Thomas.

"Oh," Thomas said blankly.

Jimmy grinned. "Hello Sir Thomas."

Thomas could not help but smile. "I'm a little taller than a man's thumb," he said, lighting a cigarette for something to do with his hands. He took a deep drag before adding: "I'm taller than you are, in fact."

"I like that story," Jimmy said wistfully. "I don't get to read many books."

"What, you mean there are no libraries in this wood of yours?" Thomas teased.

"It's not only mine. But no, you'd be surprised how few books there are, even surrounded by trees." His eyes twinkled playfully.

"What kind of books do you like?"

"I like all the old tales. Childe Rowland, Cap o' Rushes and that. And travel journals. Do you like to travel?"

"Don't make much difference with the family. Maybe if I was on my own…" He tapped his ash, momentarily avoiding Jimmy's eyes. "Or with someone I cared about. What about you?"

"I'd love to travel. I just don't like leaving home." Jimmy sighed. "It's hard to leave this place." He looked pensively up into the tree canopy.

Thomas took a thoughtful breath of smoke. "You could come in and read one of Lord Grantham's books, if ya like. He lets the staff borrow 'em."

Jimmy brightened, then frowned. "Could you not bring one out here?"

Thomas snorted. "No way. I'm not takin' his Lordship's possessions out in the mud and rain. I'm not lookin' to be sacked."

"And sneaking a stranger into the house is better?" Jimmy retorted, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"What they don't know…" Thomas said briskly. "Anyway, I've got to get back. You coming or not?"

Jimmy slipped nimbly down from his tree-branch seat. "What's your favourite story?" he asked as they set off together, feet crackling through fallen twigs.

"The Nightingale and the Rose," Thomas said, before he could think better of it.

Jimmy looked at him strangely out of the corner of his eye. "How morbid."

"S'pose I should have said The Happy Prince," Thomas acknowledged.

"Nah. That's a boring answer. That swallow should have gone to Egypt when it had the chance, then he would have been out in the sun with all his friends instead of dead on a rubbish heap."

"True. Don't know why it takes him all night to deliver a ruby, either."

"I feel a bit sorry for the Prince, though," Jimmy added. "After everything he does, he gets thrown away because of how he looks. Stupid Art Professor."

When they reached the house, Jimmy waited in the yard while Thomas looked to see if the coast was clear. The hallway was deserted, so he beckoned Jimmy inside.

"Lady Mary's out riding with Mr Fox," Thomas explained as Jimmy followed him up the back stairs towards the library. "An' everyone else will be on their way to the dining room now. So we should have the library to ourselves."

Jimmy's eyes flicked to Thomas, and a smirk settled on his lips. "Sounds interesting."

Thomas found himself blushing. He was glad that they reached the top of the stairs at that point, so he could poke his head around the green door to hide his face. "No one there," he said quietly. Instinctively and without planning to, he took Jimmy's hand to lead him across the hall, and at last they entered the library together.

Jimmy stared in awe at the rows upon rows of books. "Brilliant."

"I'm not really sure how it's organised," Thomas said. "Mr Pattinson - that's the librarian - he's an odd bloke. But history is over there by the window. And I've definitely seen some travel journals over here." He indicated a few shelves near the door. "I think he's even got Childe Rowland in here somewhere." Thomas stretched up, fingers seeking a book of faerie-tales he had seen on an upper shelf.

He was quite sure that Jimmy looked him up and down when he did.

Thomas found the book and showed it to Jimmy, who handled it carefully and soothed any nerves Thomas had had that he might have damaged the books.

"I'll have to go and supervise lunch now," Thomas said. "Just stay quiet and you should be all right. They never come in here until later. I'll be back in an hour."

Jimmy held his gaze and smiled into his eyes. "Thank you, Thomas."

As he stood in the dining room, supervising the upstairs lunch, Thomas tried and failed not to dwell on how good it felt to hear his name on Jimmy's lips. He imagined causing it to come out as a groan and felt himself flush. His mind lingered on the man in the library. It had been a terrible idea, he realised now. For all he knew, Jimmy might be a thief, and even if he was the good man that Thomas's heart told him he was, there was every chance that he could be discovered. And that would be Thomas's job out of the window.

He felt a brief surge of anger at the injustice of how easily Lord Grantham could ruin him, but there was nothing to be done about it, so he turned his thoughts to excuses he could make, should Jimmy be found. As soon as lunch was over, he slipped back to the library.

He found Jimmy lounging so deep into an armchair that he was almost lying down, with the book he was reading resting on his abdomen.

"Jimmy," he murmured, so as not to startle him as he came into Jimmy's field of vision. "Time to go."

Jimmy closed the book reluctantly and got to his feet.

Thomas waited for him to return the book to its rightful place before they reversed their journey through the house. They walked side-by-side this time, so Thomas saw the curious looks Jimmy gave to everything from the green door marking the change between the servants' area (which was also, for the most part, painted green) and the main house, to the scuffs that had developed on the floor from overuse.

"You're very interested," Thomas observed.

"I like seeing where you spend your time," Jimmy replied casually, as though it wasn't the most romantic thing someone had said to Thomas in six or seven years at least.

As they walked through the downstairs corridor to go out the back, Jimmy peeked carefully through every open door. Thomas knew he should tell him not to, but found that he could not. Luckily, all was deserted apart from Anna in the servants' hall, but they made no noise that would have caused her to look up from her sewing.

When Jimmy glanced into the kitchen, he froze. As Thomas came alongside he saw that Mrs Patmore was in there peeling potatoes and looking straight at Jimmy.

Jimmy took a step back. He stared with horror at _Thomas_ as he retreated. "You - you lied. How could you _do_ this?"

"It's okay -" Thomas began, but Jimmy was already pushing past him and fleeing down the corridor as though all the demons of Hell were at his heels. "Jimmy, wait - !"

Jimmy fled through the outer door and Thomas followed, not caring that it was the middle of the afternoon and he had jobs to do - he just followed.

He could see Jimmy's back thirty yards ahead already, across the lawn. "Please, I don't understand, how have I lied?" he called after Jimmy as they ran. "Just grant me one minute and explain what I've done!"

"What you've _done_?" Jimmy shouted incredulously, whirling to face Thomas. "You've _trapped_ her, and you were trying to do the same to me!"

"I haven't trapped her," Thomas said blankly as he came within ten feet of Jimmy - he found that if he took another step, Jimmy backed away, his hands a warning in the air and real fear in his eyes.

"Lured her, then, I don't know. Maybe telling yourself that helps you sleep at night but it doesn't make it any better for me," Jimmy retorted.

"I haven't done _anything_ to her," Thomas clarified, because he still had no idea what was happening here: he just knew that Jimmy thought he had done something terrible and was afraid of him. "Except try to steal her chocolate biscuits and get my hand slapped off for the trouble."

For several long seconds they stared at each other, chests still heaving with adrenaline and exertion.

"You really don't know, do you?" Jimmy said at a normal volume.

"Know _what_?"

"Oh, for the Mother's sake, Thomas. I'm a faerie."

"You shouldn't call yourself that," Thomas said with a frown. "It's bad enough when other people -"

"No, no, I'm not trying to tell you I'm a homosexual," Jimmy interrupted, and laughed in a voice that was higher than usual. Thomas's heart seemed to skip a beat as he heard the word, so plainly stated, and without derision. "I'm pretty sure you've worked that out by now. I mean I am _literally a faerie_. So's that woman who was peeling potatoes."

"You can't be…" Thomas said automatically, but his mind was flicking back over their short time together, and a few things that had barely seemed strange before began slotting into a new place, adjusting their edges around the anxious man in front of him.

Jimmy lived in a wood. He wanted to travel, but he couldn't leave. The very way he danced…

"Is that why you wouldn't let me drink the wine?" Thomas said slowly.

Jimmy nodded, his lips pressed together in a tight, unhappy line. "Faerie wine. Everyone there last night is a faerie. No one else could see us, you know. Did you not wonder why there weren't any spectators? You were the only one who saw us. There's something fae in your heart, too."

"What are you going on about?" Thomas demanded. He was fairly sure he would have _noticed_ if he was a faerie.

"You're human enough. But you've got this way of looking… There's something naïve deep in your heart. You _believe_ in people."

"Yes, I believe they’re all self-serving bastards."

But Jimmy shook his head. "If you truly believed that all people are bad, it wouldn't hurt so much when they were."

Thomas's lungs froze in the icy grip of this truth. "If you're a faerie," he forced out, to shift the conversation away from himself, "prove it." He did not believe Jimmy yet, but, despite himself, he was ready to.

Jimmy looked around - for inspiration, Thomas guessed - then bent down to pick up a damp leaf from the grass. As he lifted it up on his palm, it folded down the middle, and small wings stretched. It was _alive_. The brown moth that had been a leaf took off from Jimmy's hand and flapped away unsteadily, before spiralling gently to the ground, a leaf again.

"It's just an illusion," Jimmy explained, sounding apologetic. "A shifting of light… a nudge of the wind."

"So," Thomas said evenly, to cover his shock. "You're a faerie called Jimmy."

Jimmy muttered something that Thomas did not catch.

"What?"

"It's the fashion," he repeated in a low voice. "To have a human-sounding name."

Thomas fought not to laugh; Jimmy sounded so embarrassed. "And 'Kent'?" he prompted.

"Kent's a nice place!" Jimmy replied defensively. "It has a lot of gardens!"

Thomas had to laugh now, feeling as though he was losing his grip on sanity.

"Shut up or I'll _rain_ on you," Jimmy threatened, red-faced. When Thomas continued to chuckle, Jimmy shook his hands vigorously at Thomas's face, and Thomas was startled by the feel of water droplets hitting his skin. This only made him laugh more as he ducked away, and Jimmy followed him, laughing and still shaking his hands until Thomas grabbed hold of them.

Jimmy stilled at last, and their eyes caught between their raised arms. Thomas's stomach tightened. He dared to brush a thumb over Jimmy's palm; Jimmy took his hands away and put them up under his armpits, grinning at his feet.

Thomas was not sure what that meant, so he put his own restless hands in his pockets _. 'Just because he's_ _**like**_ _you doesn't mean he_ _**likes**_ _you_ ,' Thomas cautioned himself. "Why did you think I was going to trap you?"

"That woman in there -"

"Mrs Patmore?"

"I suppose. She's a brownie, and she's bound to this building, or someone in it." Jimmy shook his head. "I don't know how they've done it. I thought you were involved." At the latter, Jimmy grimaced apologetically, but Thomas could not blame him. It was probably a perfectly logical assumption, under the circumstances, and he told Jimmy so.

"I just don't know how to get her out," Jimmy said. "I can't leave her. I just can't."

"I could talk to her," Thomas suggested.

"You would?"

Thomas nodded. It seemed he could do nothing else and - and he wanted to _impress_ Jimmy. "Of course."

He was rewarded with a smile, as Jimmy began to back away.

"Will you come and see me again soon?"

"Yes."

The smile broadened, then Jimmy nodded once, before turning to make his way back to the wood.

Thomas's head spun with how quickly things had changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pic of Mrs Patmore is where this entire story came from. How 'bout that.
> 
> Also, this is the music I had in mind. The beginning 0:00-2:30 is the bit with just the piano that I mention, and onwards is what they dance to. http://marshallismyname.tumblr.com/post/133720010438


	6. Part II, Chapter 6: Daisy

Daisy knew something had happened from the way Mrs Patmore's steady fingers froze in their work, as she stared across the kitchen and through the open doorway.

"What is it?" Daisy asked, startling the older woman into dropping the potato she was peeling, though when Daisy moved behind Mrs Patmore to see what she was looking at, all Daisy could see was Mr Barrow, who was in turn watching a strange man rushing past the door.

"Now look what you've done!" Mrs Patmore snapped, stiff with irritation as she pushed away from the table.

"Sorry, Mrs Patmore!" Daisy said miserably. She rushed to pick up the potato, but they both bent down at the same moment and cracked their heads together.

"Daisy!"

"Sorry, Mrs Patmore," Daisy gasped again, rubbing the bump with one hand and holding out the retrieved potato with the other.

Mrs Patmore took it and stumped back to her place at the table.

"I didn't mean to," Daisy added, because she hated to think of Mrs Patmore being angry with her.

Mrs Patmore's eyes softened at that, and she said: "I know, my girl. Go and stir your custard; you don't want your custard tarts being ruined if you burn it."

Comforted by her gruff kindness, Daisy did as she suggested.

After a minute of listening to the gentle scraping of the wooden spoon against the bottom of the saucepan, Daisy turned to ask Mrs Patmore a question about timings, but stopped when she saw the faraway expression on her face.

"What's happened?" Daisy implored.

"Don't you worry, dear," Mrs Patmore replied, apparently making an effort to bring her thoughts back to the here and now.

"I do worry." Daisy's eyes skittered to Mr Barrow as he sidled into their private world, smoking as though his mind was elsewhere. ' _Now there's something to worry about_ ,' Daisy thought, then felt bad for it. It had been a long time since he had tried to persuade her into unkindness.

Daisy felt small under his superior gaze, and turned away to strain her custard.

"Mrs Patmore, I wonder if I might have a word," he said in that exaggeratedly-courteous way he had that always seemed to spell trouble.

From the look on her face, Mrs Patmore seemed to agree with this view. "Oh, aye? And what might you be wanting a word about?"

Mr Barrow glanced at Daisy. "It's a private matter."

"Anything you want to say to me, you can say in front of Daisy," Mrs Patmore said firmly, and Daisy swelled with pride.

Mr Barrow still seemed uncertain. Ash dropped from his forgotten cigarette onto the flagstones. "Well, I -"

"Spit it out, Mr Barrow, I've work to do."

Mr Barrow lifted his chin slightly. "The man you saw knows of you and your… situation." His eyes went to Daisy again at this last. "He would like to offer his assistance."

"And why couldn't he tell me this himself?" Mrs Patmore demanded brusquely.

Daisy felt the flicker of Mr Barrow's irritation like an electric charge in the air.

"He was - reluctant to linger, what with him being… like you."

He had glanced at Daisy yet again as he spoke, so Daisy decided to make things simpler because she was sure she knew what he meant.

"If you're talking about Mrs Patmore being a brownie," she offered, "I already know."

Both of them stared at her and she, unaccustomed to such direct gazes, shuffled uncomfortably under the weight of them.

"What do you mean you already know?" asked Mrs Patmore.

"Lord Grantham gives you honey and milk," Daisy began, feeling as though she had done something wrong. "You hate it when people thank you. You have the smallest bedroom in the house even though you're the second cook, and your bed is like a nest. And the whole business with Lord Grantham…"

"What business?" Mr Barrow asked, at the same moment as Mrs Patmore said:

"Why did you never say anything?"

"I didn't think you wanted me to. Did I get it wrong?"

Mrs Patmore patted her arm. "No, dear. You didn't get it wrong at all."

"What happened with Lord Grantham?" repeated Mr Barrow, with the calm doggedness of someone used to sniffing out a story.

Mrs Patmore sighed sharply. "You might as well hear the full story, I suppose." She corralled the potatoes into a pot, washed her hands of starch, and dried them on a tea towel before she spoke again, telling the whole story of her confrontation with Lord Grantham.

Daisy was horrified. She had never realised that Mrs Patmore was being held here and threatened. She had known that Lord Grantham would eat only Mrs Patmore's food while allowing no one else to do so, but she had assumed that, like most brownies, Mrs Patmore was here out of choice and was free to leave at any time. She had thought that Mrs Patmore was helping after Lord Grantham had had some hazy mishap she had never really thought about. Now that belief seemed very young and naïve.

"I hope you don't hate me for it, Daisy," Mrs Patmore said when she had finished her tale.

"I don't hate you for it even one little bit," Daisy assured her honestly. "But I shouldn't speak ill of my employer."

Mr Barrow laughed at that, which made her slightly uneasy. She did not think him gratuitously cruel, as some of the others seemed to, but it still paid to be cautious.

"It's just a shame you're incorruptible, Daisy," he said. "You seem to know everything. You'd make a brilliant spy."

"You say your friend wants to help?" said Mrs Patmore.

"Yes."

"I hope he knows how, because I've no idea. I've never heard of a human recovering after eating faerie food, and as long as he needs me to cook for him, he won't let me go. Not that I can blame him," she added, looking ashamed, and Daisy clutched the arm that was resting on the table as Mrs Patmore wiped damp eyes with the other.

Mr Barrow lit another cigarette, his first having burnt out, and smoked it without saying anything for a few moments. Daisy offered murmured words of comfort for Mrs Patmore and rubbed her shoulder. She hated to see her so upset and guilt-ridden.

"There must be _something_ ," Mr Barrow said at last. "I'll do some research. See what I can dig up."

"And so will I!" Daisy declared, though she had no idea where to even start.


	7. Part II, Chapter 7: Mary

"We should go for a ride," Mr Fox had said at breakfast. Mary had not been riding for a week, so she agreed easily.

Thus it was that at 11.30 they set out across the estate. Mr Fox rode Damocles, a bay Arabian gelding, while Mary rode her favourite grey mare, Cricket. Never one to willingly walk when she could run, Cricket kept trying to break into a jog until Mary finally pushed her into a proper trot as they reached less churned-up ground.

"What a _lovely_ day," Mr Fox remarked, sitting to the trot as he came alongside.

Indeed, it was a relief to see glimmers of sunlight behind the all-encompassing clouds after the perpetual drizzle of the past few days. And yet: "I wouldn’t go that far," she replied dryly. "It's hardly the Orient."

"Well, no," Mr Fox acknowledged. "But a dashed relief, all the same."

"You're a man of the sun then, are you, Mr Fox?"

"If it can be chosen, yes, I'd say I am. I can't cope with all this rain; it's most inconvenient."

"In what way?" Mary asked, drawing Cricket back into a walk, the easier to chat. "Does it affect your business?" She did not know what his business was, exactly, only that he had one.

"Ah, business." He waved a hand absently. "It's affected by all the vagaries that life has to offer, from the lightest drizzle to the greatest hurricane. A precarious endeavour. I'm far more concerned that it makes it less pleasant to go riding with you."

From Matthew, that remark would have raised a smile in her, at least. But Matthew was with Lavinia.

"And Damocles, of course," she jested. "He's been waiting for you."

"And I've been waiting for you, m'boy!" he declared grandly, slapping the horse soundly on the neck; Damocles jerked his head up in surprise. "Every day, I sit in my house in dreary Beverley, thinking if only I could be out riding with dear Damocles in dreary Downton!"

This was just what Mary liked about Mr Fox - he was so loftily flamboyant that he made a good distraction, even if she found his evasiveness on certain matters unnerving. "You don't aspire to much, then," she replied to him.

"Ah, well. I must admit hunting is one of my favourite things, even if I am forced into it by the demands of maintaining my image."

"Not forced, surely."

"You'd be surprised what you have to do just to keep your head above water in the business world."

"And what _is_ your business?" Mary pressed.

"Buying, selling. Oh Mary, look at that fantastic fallen tree!"

"You're not going to jump it?" she said. "It's huge!"

"Just you watch," Mr Fox replied. He leaned over to talk to Damocles. "You can take it, can't you lad? Tally-ho!" He urged Damocles towards it, pushing him up to a canter, with Mary laughing and shouting after him:

"You're only supposed to say that when there's a fox!"

"I am a fox!" he shouted back, flinging out one arm just as Damocles' front legs lifted off the ground, and the pair of them soared over the fallen tree.

Mr Fox may not be Matthew, but he was jolly good fun.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus this week: I'll post the next chapter (a Jimmy chapter) as soon as I get 5 more comments on this fic.


	8. Part II, Chapter 8: Anna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got 5 reviews so YOU get a new chapter! Thanks so much. But I feel like I've cheated you. I genuinely thought this chapter was a Jimmy chapter, but I'd forgotten about this Anna chapter. I'm sorry. I hope you're not too disappointed, and you'll still get to read the Jimmy chapter on Sunday! (It even has more art from Link!)

Anna rather liked sewing. She had met lady's maids who saw the job as the bane of their existence, and had even known a girl who had decided not to take that path purely because of her horror of sewing. Most women she knew saw it as a mundane but neutral necessity. For Anna, however, sewing reminded her of her mother. Every time Anna threaded a needle she would hear her mother's voice saying "Careful, Anna, dear", just as she had said, word-for-word, every time Anna had done so as a child still learning.

Anna had gone on to sew dresses and bags and all manner of other everyday projects, but her favourite sewing project was decorating cushion covers. She had spent hours sewing swirls and flowers onto the cushions in her and her husband's cottage. John had even helped her from time to time, when the mood struck him, and they had sat sewing in the evenings, while chatting amiably. Even months later, she continued to find secret tiny love-hearts or her own initials in the corner of a cushion that he had done.

Sewing was wonderful for keeping her hands busy while still allowing her to carry on a conversation, but, at other times, it allowed her to sink under its rhythmic spell of concentration if she wanted to avoid thinking for a while.

Today, Anna's thoughts were on Lady Mary, which was by no means an uncommon occurrence. Lady Mary had been frustrating the family recently by inviting a progression of mildly unsuitable suitors to the house. Anna suspected she was attempting to appease her parents' desire for her to find a husband in the most annoying way she could think of; even Lady Mary herself had not seemed much taken with any of the men who visited.

Mr Fox appeared to be different. Lady Mary gushed over him as Anna helped her to dress or did her hair - as much as she ever gushed over anyone, which amounted to one lukewarm comment every day or two.

"Do you know, Anna," she would say as she put on her earrings, "he sent me a letter this morning that was folded into the shape of a swan. You should have seen Carson's face!"

Or: "He's so courteous, you know. He'll hold the door open for anybody."

Or: "While we were out riding yesterday he jumped the most enormous fallen tree without even hesitating. It was terribly brave."

Mr Fox had visited four or five times now, usually staying up to a week at a time. The family had disapproved at first, because he had made his own fortune instead of inheriting it, but he was so charming and gallant that even Carson began to begrudgingly rather like him. It would never have happened before Matthew, Anna thought. In any case, they probably believed that Lady Mary would never be serious about Mr Fox.

While all above-stairs were preoccupied with Mr Fox, things below-stairs were strange. Anna was not sure what had happened; it was only the smallest of changes. Thomas - that is, Mr Barrow - had always made a habit of reading the newspaper in the servants' hall. However, lately he had abandoned the newspaper and instead read books borrowed from Lord Grantham or bought from bookshops in Ripon and York. He had even, she discovered one day, ordered several volumes in. He seemed more focused and cheerful than Anna had ever seen him. And yet, he would tell nobody what he was reading, hiding the covers against the table or his lap and scowling terribly at anyone who strayed close enough to read over his shoulder.

Daisy, too, had discovered a love of reading. She had taken to carrying books about everywhere: she poured the servants' tea with a book in the other hand; she stirred sauce with a book resting next to her on the counter; she even laid one on the table as she chopped vegetables until Mrs Patmore snapped it closed in front of her nose and took it away before she lost the tips of her fingers.

Mrs Patmore seemed tense. Mrs Morris shouted more than usual at Daisy's inattention. The new footman lost his dead father's gold wedding ring and spent three days moving ceaselessly from room to room looking for it and bawling at anyone who spoke to him, before finally conceding that it was gone. There seemed to be something in the air; Lady Mary had misplaced a diamond necklace.

The upshot of all this was that all the servants were short with each other, creating an atmosphere in which everybody felt that they were bothering everyone else.

John told her fondly not to worry, but Anna was sure that something was going on.


	9. Part II, Chapter 9: Jimmy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Thomas came to see him again a few days later, calling Jimmy's name as he entered the wood. The call was picked up by the trees and whispered between the leaves until it reached Jimmy's ears. He was, at the time, lying on his back in the shallow stream which wound through the wood, feeling the flow of water parting around his head and rushing across his bare skin. It was a good job that Thomas had come when he did, really, as Jimmy was about five minutes away from being subject to the advances of an over-amorous water sprite. She liked to run her fingers through the tendrils of his hair in the water, but would cling to it when he made to leave. She could not seem to remember that he was a woodland sprite, not a faerie of the water; he needed air to breathe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I encourage you to listen to Einaudi's Walk as you read. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p-ca1ocriv0

The funny thing was: Jimmy had not been intending to go to the dance. He had been keeping an eye on a young vixen who was about to give birth for the first time, but she had grown tired of him hanging around in her territory and bared her teeth at him, so he had decided to get out of her way for the evening.

After the dance, it seemed that she had steered him directly into the path of Thomas Barrow, so he had a particular fondness for her and the four little brown cubs who had been born two nights later - without his help.

When Jimmy returned from visiting Downton Abbey for the first time, he had walked about the woods for a while, full of restless energy from his scare in the house and the incident with Thomas outside. The encounter had only highlighted how much he had immediately trusted a man who he had only met the day before - though he had seen Thomas walking through the woods quite a few times over the years. The idea that Thomas might not have been trustworthy had shaken him; he was glad to discover the misunderstanding.

Thomas came to see him again a few days later, calling Jimmy's name as he entered the wood. The call was picked up by the trees and whispered between the leaves until it reached Jimmy's ears. He was, at the time, lying on his back in the shallow stream which wound through the wood, feeling the flow of water parting around his head and rushing across his bare skin. It was a good job that Thomas had come when he did, really, as Jimmy was about five minutes away from being subject to the advances of an over-amorous water sprite. She liked to run her fingers through the tendrils of his hair in the water, but would cling to it when he made to leave. She could not seem to remember that he was a woodland sprite, not a faerie of the water; he needed air to breathe.

Jimmy pushed himself out of the water, streaming from his hair and body, and floated to see Thomas. In this form, he would be called a will o' th' wisp by people who did not quite understand; he was the size of an apple and as bright yet insubstantial as a beam of afternoon sunlight. Travel was faster this way, though it took a lot of energy.

Seeing Thomas, Jimmy reverted to his humanoid body. He smirked as he saw Thomas widen his eyes and fix them determinedly on Jimmy's face. Jimmy had forgotten how funny humans could be about nudity.

"Good afternoon, Jimmy," Thomas said stiffly. Jimmy noted with amusement that Thomas's voice became clipped when he was uncomfortable. He was holding himself very upright and still, as though to avoid revealing so much as a twitch of agitation.

Jimmy pulled a cloak out of the air - at least, that would be how it looked to Thomas. In reality, objects could not be created out of _nothing_ , only moved, or altered. It all came down to energy and the ways it could be transferred and transformed.

"Hello, Sir Thomas," Jimmy responded, closing the grey cloak around his body. It was easy, he thought (at least for him), to _make_ someone attracted to you. It was far harder to convince them to love you.

Jimmy suddenly thought of Thomas's thumb against his palm, and a wave of unexpected embarrassment came over him as he thought of his misunderstanding the day before. He decided to tackle the subject straight off, looking up at Thomas through his dripping fringe. "Did you speak to Mrs Patmore?" he asked, wiping his palms nervously against his cloak.

"I did," Thomas replied, still perfectly composed. "She told me what happened."

"And what did happen?"

Thomas glanced about, went over to a fallen log, and brushed at it ineffectually before gingerly sitting down. Jimmy, as though pulled by invisible strings, followed; he sat close on Thomas's right side.

"When Lady Sybil - she was the youngest daughter - when she died in childbirth, Lord Grantham wanted Mrs Patmore to save her - to bring her back to life. An' he wouldn't listen when she said it wasn't possible, so she gave him a fake spell and faerie food. When he realised what she'd done, he went back and triple-bonded her with this magic snuffbox that he'd picked up from God-knows-where."

"And now she cooks for him, otherwise he'd waste away," Jimmy surmised.

"Exactly. Quite a pickle."

"So we have to find a way of breaking the binding," Jimmy mused. "How was it wrought?"

Thomas explained about the ice to stop her leaving, the gold to stop her plotting, and the honey to stop her harming. "She can't even _think_ about how she might free herself, because the binding kicks in and stops it."

"I'm sure we can think of a way," Jimmy insisted. "Though Grantham would probably have to be part of the breaking."

"He never would. Not while he needs her."

Jimmy grimaced at the added complication. "Looks like we'll have to cure him as well, then."

Thomas looked at him sideways with a lopsided smile. "'We', is it?"

Jimmy pushed out one leg - the one nearest to Thomas - sliding his foot under Thomas's bent leg to rest alongside the inside of his foot. With his eyes fixed on Thomas's face as they were, Jimmy saw Thomas's lips part as his breath caught, and a feeling like warm honey pooled in Jimmy's stomach. "Will you help me to free her, Mr Barrow?" he asked formally, holding his gaze.

"Yes," Thomas replied at once.

Jimmy felt a slow grin spread across his face. Thomas mirrored it, ducking his head shyly.

"I'd better get going," Thomas said, his voice low and rough and doing delightful things to Jimmy's insides.

"Will you come back tomorrow?" Jimmy asked, his voice eager as he leaned closer.

"I don't know," Thomas replied, needlessly brushing the fabric of his trousers over his thighs but making no move to stand yet. "I've already skipped lunch twice. I can't risk arousing suspicion. If someone finds out…" His face was no longer open, as it had been when he had arrived, but closed and blank, as though he had drawn the shutters against the harsher realities of life, and Jimmy hated it.

Placing his left hand on Thomas's right shoulder, Jimmy leaned in close and whispered in his ear: " _Don't worry_ ," letting the calm of a still pond ripple through his words and out to soothe Thomas's anxiety.

For a moment, those storm-blue eyes half closed, but then Thomas stood, stumbling very slightly. He was frowning. "Don't do that."

Confusion washed over him. "I was trying to help," Jimmy protested, looking up at Thomas and the way the afternoon light trickled through the trees behind him.

"Well, don't."

"Why not?" Jimmy asked, standing, feeling somehow that they needed to be on a more even footing.

Thomas looked at him steadily. "I don't have much in this world, Jimmy, but my feelings are my own."

He said it so calmly, and Jimmy suddenly felt very small, and very wrong, and very stupid. "Even the bad ones?"

Thomas stepped forward and took Jimmy's hand. "The good and the bad equally," he said, and it sounded like a promise, which he sealed by pressing his lips to the back of Jimmy's hand. "Come and see me instead, on Friday. I'll be in the greenhouse gathering flowers for Lady Sybil's grave most of the morning, and the gardener will be out."

"Which one's Friday?" Jimmy asked, his excitement rekindling.

Thomas smiled and kissed his hand again, and Jimmy shivered to feel his soft lips against his skin. "Three days." He gently uncurled Jimmy's fingers. "Not the first morning -" he kissed the tip of Jimmy's index finger - "Not the second morning -" he kissed Jimmy's middle finger - "But the _third_ morning -" he kissed Jimmy's third finger, and goosebumps raised on Jimmy's arms as he felt the brief contact of Thomas's warm, wet tongue against the pad of his finger.

"I'll see you on Friday," Jimmy agreed breathlessly, flexing his fingers to demonstrate.

"See you on Friday," Thomas echoed.

Jimmy watched him go, resisting the urge to follow him to the edge of the wood. Instead, he went looking for other faeries, asking if anybody knew of a way to cure a human who had eaten faerie food.

Over the next three days, he marked each sunrise by waggling the appropriate finger at it. During that time, he spoke to sprites of the wood, kelpies, the ponderous dryads, and some of the grassland faeries, who looked just like small mice apart from the green algae in their delicate fur and their two tails. He even went into Downton village and asked the brownies and house sprites, but nobody had ever heard of a human who had not wasted and died after eating faerie food. Many of them grinned wickedly as they told him this, or else eyed him with suspicion, or said scornfully that it was not something he should wish to know.

On the third morning, as the sun pulled Jimmy from his slumber, he greeted it with a sleepy smile and a wave of his third finger.

"Friday," he murmured.

He floated through the wood, literally, only taking on his humanoid body as he left the trees. The wind gusted drizzle into his face until he calmed it with a whisper.

It occurred to him as he approached the huge, imposing prison that he had no idea where the greenhouse was. How was he supposed to know how humans organised their buildings? He walked around the side of the house, ambling along an unnaturally straight path edged on both sides by a hedge that was cut to have _flat sides_ and _square corners_ , of all things. Every so often, a break in the hedge would reveal a snatch of rose bushes or, later, rows of parsley and Brussels sprout plants in the protection of the hedges. There was not much growing for the house to eat at this time of year, though many of the beds were bare and raked smooth and, in some of them, Jimmy could sense the sparkling potential of a few hardier seeds that had been sown.

A greater number of seeds pulled at him from somewhere ahead, and when Jimmy looked up just before the path turned left he saw a large greenhouse, almost church-like, with three points to its roof. There was a thin layer of green moss along the edges of each pane of glass, and, as he entered, he saw rows of beds stretching out in front of him.

There were no people, Jimmy saw at a glance, but there was a row of lemon trees along the brick back wall. Some of the beds contained rows of seeds. Others, young sweet pea plants, which reached up to the hanging strings for support. The majority, however, contained flowers of every colour and variety. Some skulked low to the ground, while others were as tall as Jimmy's waist. Along the glass south wall, where the door was, ran a long table. On the outer edge was a row of potted plants with thick juicy leaves, along with some strawberry plants in long shallow containers. The rest of the table was cluttered with various-sized pots and trowels. Underneath it were bags of compost, bottles of fertiliser and a wheelbarrow with a muddy spade in it.

Jimmy looked past these human trappings and out through the glass at the gravel path, the tortured green hedge, and the upper storeys of the Abbey looming in the near distance.

Catching movement at the edge of his vision, Jimmy saw that, walking down the path towards him, was Thomas. He wore a green apron over his uniform and carried a black umbrella in one hand - a wicker basket hung from his elbow - but his hair was as perfectly pomaded as usual and he still held a lit cigarette in the other hand. Jimmy melted at the sight of him.

Something about the quality of the light, or a reluctance to look up through the rain, seemed to prevent Thomas from seeing inside the greenhouse until he reached the door and put the basket and the umbrella on the table, whereupon his eyes found Jimmy at once. They shared a smile.

"You remembered, then?" Thomas said, approaching Jimmy where he stood in front of a patch of low-growing white Allysum, interspersed with daffodils.

"How could I forget, with such an _aide memoire_?" They both moved without hesitation, as though they were following choreography in a dance. As Thomas came within a foot of him, Jimmy stepped forward and slid eager fingers against Thomas's neck, and their lips met naturally, as though they could do nothing else. The pattering of the rain on the greenhouse roof seemed an echo of Jimmy's own heart as he pushed to be still closer to Thomas. Their chests were pressed together as Jimmy leaned up to compensate for their slight height difference.

Thomas had placed his hands at Jimmy's waist, and now slid them slowly over his ribcage, up and then down. His mouth tasted of cigarette smoke.

As they ended the kiss, Jimmy grinned cheekily. "Morning."

Thomas smiled back. "I brought you a book." He took one out of the basket he had brought and handed it to Jimmy.

Jimmy took the book eagerly, seeing Thomas walk slowly away between two of the flower beds in his peripheral vision. "I thought you wouldn't let me have any of Grantham's?" He examined the book closely.

"That's, ah, one of mine. So mind you take good care of it."

"I will, I will," Jimmy agreed at once, opening the front cover and turning to the first page. He guessed he must look like an over-excited child because Thomas said:

"How old are you?"

But he sounded curious, rather than criticising.

"Do faeries… I've heard they can live a long time. You're not 103, are you?"

"It depends on the faerie," Jimmy replied, tearing his attention away from the book in favour of the more immediate presence of lovely Thomas. "Water sprites live a long time by your standards - a few hundred years. Most brownies make it to 140 or so. Other faeries might live only a summer, or a moon cycle. Dryads live as long as their tree, obviously."

As he spoke, Jimmy had trailed after Thomas down the central walkway, and so was afforded a close-up of Thomas grimacing as he put on a pair of borrowed gardening gloves, which made his hands dirty before he had even touched the soil. Jimmy could not understand why he had a problem with a bit of earth.

"And you?" Thomas asked.

"I'm 26 now. I'll probably live to 90 or more, as long as the wood stays healthy."

"I see," Thomas said, trying to balance sitting on his heels while snipping off a few long stalks of purple African lily, a flower which splayed out at the top to look like a firework.

"Shouldn't the gardener do this?" Jimmy asked, at Thomas's irritated sigh.

"He's only been here 8 or 9 months. The family wanted someone who knew Sybil to make her bouquet. So I got lumbered with the job."

He sounded disgruntled, and yet Jimmy took one look at his face as he carefully laid a handful of exotic pink Peruvian lilies into the basket and knew that he had volunteered.

Jimmy's hand went to the back of Thomas's neck. "I asked around," he said, looking at Thomas's profile as he rubbed his fingers along the hairline. A few strands of hair which had escaped the pomade tickled the backs of his fingers. "No one knows of a human who has eaten faerie food and been able to go back to human food. Ever after it doesn't tempt them or won't nourish them, or both, and they just wither away and die." Jimmy did not bother trying to sound upset by this, and Thomas did not appear particularly perturbed either. People died every day; you couldn't be upset about all of them.

"I've been borrowing books from His Lordship's library, but I haven't found anything so far either."

"Is that wise, letting him know what you're doing?"

Thomas cut through another stem and stood up before he replied. "I write in his ledger that I'm borrowing somethin' else." He sounded pleased with himself, shooting Jimmy a very small, sly smile, and just then, at that very moment, Jimmy decided that he loved this man now walking between patches of marigold and jonquil. He grabbed Thomas by the sleeve and spun him round into a kiss, catching only a glimpse of his startled expression before he disappeared behind Jimmy’s closed eyelids.

Thomas kissed, at least so far, as though it was the last kiss he would ever have, and it made Jimmy want to ensure that it wouldn't be. Jimmy tried to make a promise without words; ' _I won't leave you,_ ' he said with the kiss.

Thomas pulled away, but only slightly, resting his forehead against Jimmy's. "If we keep doin' that, I won' ever get these flowers finished," he murmured in a voice that was rough with desire.

"That's your problem, not mine," Jimmy retorted, and kissed Thomas again, slow and yet urgent. "You should get some cyclamen," he said as their lips parted.

"Which are those?"

"The petals curl round so that they look a bit like two pieces of paper slotted together," Jimmy explained, looking around for some. He found them in a corner, a white variety with pink creeping up from the base as though a blob of ink had been dropped onto white tissue paper.

Thomas picked a few and added them to the now-overflowing basket of flowers that he had collected. Jimmy kissed him again as he stood. It was as though a dam had been broken; now that he had kissed Thomas once, he could not seem to stop. He did not want to stop _touching_ Thomas either, not when his palms slid so smoothly against Thomas's chest, and their bodies fit so effortlessly against each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The music was because I think it sounds like a couple's first kiss.
> 
> Art, as always, by the fantastic LinkWorshiper! Isn't it gorgeous?
> 
> Comments would be gratefully received! Let me know what you're thinking :)


	10. Part II, Chapter 10: Edith

That year, 1922, Sybil's birthday fell on a Saturday. It was now eighteen months since she had died. Edith found that the 16th of March felt a long way off until suddenly it was the 15th, and a single night separated her from her darling sister's birthday.

It might almost have been easier if they had gone to Duneagal as usual; but her father had decided against it again, at least until after the anniversary. He rarely seemed to go out these days.

Michael, God bless him, had come to visit and lend Edith his moral support, swearing that he would keep right out of all their way unless she requested otherwise. It was oddly reassuring that he had never known Sybil. Mary had sniped half-heartedly that Edith could not manage on her own, but Edith did not see what shame there was in that. Sybil was their _sister_.

Edith chose her clothes carefully on the morning of Sybil's death, wanting to honour her sister by looking smart for her when they went to visit her grave after breakfast.

The meal was a sombre affair. Edith was desperate to talk about Sybil, but she did not know how to bring her up. She was sure that everyone was thinking of Sybil anyway.

"I wonder what Sybil would say, if she was here now," Michael said, and Edith gave him a grateful look. However, when she checked her family's reactions, her father looked as though he had just seen Michael mutate into an ostrich in front of his eyes; her mother was grimacing sympathetically; Mary was frowning at him for breaking the silence; and Tom had his eyes closed and his head bowed.

"I think she would say, 'Why all the long faces? I'm getting flowers later'," Edith said, hoping to jog them into animation, but they all fixed her with disapproving looks. "Well she would!" Edith insisted, trying not to get flustered. "She hated to see anybody sad."

This remark seemed at last to set a spark, and they all reminisced fondly and sadly for the rest of the meal, before gathering together in the hallway and making a pilgrimage to the village churchyard. They met Granny and cousin Isabel there.

Each of the family left on the grave a small posy of flowers, as chosen by Barrow (according to papa), and last of all mama and papa laid a wreath constructed of flexible twigs and long-stemmed flowers. "Dearest Sybil," her father intoned, holding the headstone as though he was clutching the young woman's shoulder. "We borrowed her from a faerie-tale, and there she has returned."

When Edith had laid her posy, she stood clutching Michael's elbow. Later, he slipped away with most of the others to allow she and Mary a moment with their dead sister, and Mary said to her: "Sometimes I forget that she used to think us kind. I think she was the only one who thought I was a nice person."

"I'm not surprised," Edith retorted, a younger version of her responding to the slight in Mary's words before she realised how much her sister was hurting.

"I see Gregson's here again," Mary said pointedly.

"I see Mr Fox is not," Edith countered, mock-politely.

"No," Mary agreed ponderously, closely examining a patch of moss on Sybil's headstone. "I suppose he felt the day would not be very profitable for him."

"What do you mean?" Edith asked, surprised by her odd choice of words.

"We'll soon see what he does find profitable."

Edith just stared at her, flummoxed.

A small smile softened Mary's lips. "Never mind."

 


	11. Part II, Chapter 11: Thomas

Over the next eleven days, Thomas spent every moment he could reading faerie-tales and only marginally more scholarly books about faerie lore, and even a few books about witchcraft. He was careful to keep the covers hidden when he read, partly to ensure that Lord Grantham could not possibly hear of what they were doing until they were ready, and partly because he was an adult and did not want to be seen reading faerie-tales. Or, indeed, Godless books of witchcraft; he may not subscribe entirely to Christianity but he did not want to be labelled a blasphemous heathen, either.

Several of the books, he had borrowed from Lord Grantham under other titles, but others, including the ones on witchcraft, he had purchased from bookshops in Ripon and Thirsk. He had written to a bookshop in York to request more books on the topic, too, which he would collect on his day off on the 27th of that month. Hopefully that would give them just enough time to acquire the new volumes.

Daisy was some help in sifting through the information, but Thomas found it difficult to trust that she had found everything of use in the books and so sometimes re-read the ones she had examined anyway.

He was not sure why he was doing all this, but he had said he would, and if Thomas had one virtue it was that he kept his word. Well, to people who mattered, anyway.

Several more meetings with Jimmy left Thomas with his head spinning with Jimmy's rapid-fire and unlikely suggestions for curing Lord Grantham, his lips kiss-bruised, and his body aching for Jimmy's touch. They could barely keep their hands off each other most of the time, though so far they had not taken things further than touching and kissing.

Thomas never tired of asking Jimmy questions, and Jimmy seemed to find him equally as fascinating. "Why do you work at the bottom of the house and sleep at the top?" he would ask, and Thomas would have to admit that he didn't really know; it was just how things were done. Jimmy had a quick temper and a quick wit to match; if Thomas was unable to answer something, he was just as likely to fall into a sulk as he was to grin and make a gently teasing remark.

 _Capricious_ , some part of Thomas's brain whispered. There had been a section on woodland sprites in _The Fae Folk_ , which Thomas had read furtively in his bedroom one night, feeling as though he was somehow prying. ' _Woodland sprites are prone to be capricious, playful and changeable, as a leaf spinning on the wind.'_

"When you apparently 'rained' on me, how does that work?" Thomas asked once.

"There's moisture in the air, all the time. All I do…" He dragged his hand slowly through the air. "...is take out some of its energy so that it condenses." He held his hand out to Thomas; there were droplets of water clinging to his fingertips.

"So you're like an energy transducer?" Thomas had read about those; when electricity had come to Downton he had found a book about it so as not to appear behind. It always paid to have knowledge.

"Something like that," Jimmy had agreed, smiling.

The day before Thomas was due to go to York, it rained miserably the entire day. Even inside, the very air seemed damp with it as fat droplets threw themselves at the windows, gusted by the wind. It barely got light all day. Thomas, who had been looking forward to spending a quiet afternoon in the wood with Jimmy, spent the whole day in an agony of suspense, praying that the weather would brighten up by the morning.

He awoke to cloud, which was at least better than rain. To avoid having to return to the Abbey, Thomas took an old coat with him to sit on later and stashed it under a hedge. He then took an early bus to York, watching through the rattling windows as the clouds melted away in the sunlight.

He stepped off the bus into a soggy but glistening York morning, watched over by the square tower of the Minster. Few people had yet ventured out into the newly-sunny morning, so Thomas and his unnecessary umbrella had the pavement almost to themselves. Crossing the road to avoid a particularly loud and enthusiastic paper boy's cries of "Post! Post!" brought Thomas a little too close to the warm, heavy scent of baking. He touched the cash in his pocket, mentally counting it, before deciding to heed his rumbling stomach (he had missed breakfast) and buy a sweet bagel, which he ate as he walked to the bookshop.

The man behind the counter there gave Thomas a distrustful look, taking in his suit and good shoes as though they ought to preclude him from reading these sorts of books. Thomas did not offer an explanation, distracting the man with a brief haggle over the price of the four volumes.

Thomas had heard of shops which sold charms and books of witchcraft, and indeed he had been to one as a boy, daring to blow raspberries with school friends at the fierce old lady who ran the tiny establishment. With a strength not suggested by her fragile grey hair, she had gripped two of them by the ear and dragged them out onto the street, muttering unknown words in such a threatening tone that they had never returned.

But that was back in Manchester. What Thomas needed was a similar shop here in York. He walked the streets for an hour, trying to find an area that _felt_ the same nestled among the backstreets. When he was about to give up and go to catch a bus home, Thomas found it.

The shop looked as though it had once been merely a living space, with the grid of small panes of black-framed glass added later. This window was too grimy for any of the contents to be seen within, and there was no name above the shop, but on the half-open door hung an "open" sign with a pentagram symbol on it.

A bell rang as Thomas pushed the door open, which seemed unnecessary in such a tiny space. The noise caused the middle-aged shopkeeper with a receding hairline to look up sharply from the book he was reading behind the counter. Apart from him, only a young woman was in the shop, examining a display of crystals beside the counter.

"Good morning," Thomas began courteously. "I am looking for some information."

The shopkeeper snorted. "Of course you are. That's why people like you come in here."

Thomas bristled. He pressed his lips together and counted to three to keep from saying something unwise. "I'm looking for books about faeries."

The young woman shot Thomas an incredulous glance before sharing an amused look with the shopkeeper. Thomas rather felt as though he had blundered into a high society dinner and asked at the top of his voice which fork he should use to cut up his soup.

"And I've got 'em," the shopkeeper said. "D'you want to be more specific or would you like to buy all fifty of them?"

There was a large purple geode on a shelf behind the shopkeeper. Thomas imagined it falling on the man's shiny forehead and smiled tightly. "Allowing me to look at them will be sufficient."

The shopkeeper came out from behind the counter, muttering: "Blimey, you try to help a bloke…" and showed Thomas into the back room, which was crammed with bookcases which were in turn stuffed with books and other oddities. The shopkeeper pointed out a section in the middle before returning to mind the shop. Thomas looked through the books carefully, selected three, and pocketed a small black stone from a basket as a petty revenge at the old git for his impertinence.

" _Introduction to the Magic of the Earth_." The shopkeeper nodded approvingly as Thomas put the three books on the counter.

"Well we can't all be experts," Thomas responded, feeling peevish.

"That doesn't mean you have to be _stupid_ ," the shopkeeper snapped abruptly.

Thomas was too surprised to respond for a moment. The shopkeeper looked taken aback too, his eyebrows coming down and making his forehead look even larger.

"I apologise, sir. I do not know why I said that." The man named his price; Thomas haggled him down and handed over the cash. The shopkeeper fidgeted at the till for a while before returning the change. Thomas turned to leave as he pocketed it, and his fingers found a slip of paper. He had to withdraw his hand to open the door, and so he was back on the street and walking in the direction of the bus station by the time he unfolded it.

_The tourmaline did not suit you._

Thomas blinked at the scrawled handwriting. Finding no meaning in the words, he returned the note to his pocket and instead pulled out the shiny black stone to admire in the sunlight.

It appeared to have developed white blooms, like fungal growth from the inside. And if he was not mistaken, it was a different shape; in fact, it was a different stone altogether.

The shopkeeper must have swapped it. But why? And, just as mysterious, _how_?

Thomas pondered this as the bus took him back to Downton, wondering why the man had not simply demanded the stone back, since he obviously knew that Thomas had taken it.

He told the story to Jimmy when they met in a clearing. The wood seemed full of promise; yesterday's rain seemed to have brought with it the spark of life, as now Thomas noted that the hawthorn trees were jewelled with the first new buds of spring, the tight little packages a vivid green against the dark branches.

Thomas shook out the old coat he had retrieved flat onto the ground; Jimmy looked at Thomas warily before sitting a few feet away.

Upon hearing the story, Jimmy laughed aloud.

"Serves you right for trying to steal it. Tourmaline deflects negative energy back to the source. It's supposed to act as protection but in your case it seems to have reflected your own negative energy back at you, via someone else." He played with the replacement stone for a moment. "I'm glad he took it off you."

"What has he given me instead?"

Jimmy held up the little white-spotted stone. "Snowflake obsidian. Clears negative thoughts and inspires new ideas." He pressed it into Thomas's hand, holding his gaze seriously. "Keep hold of it. It should be useful."

Thomas nodded and put the stone back in his pocket, unsure whether he believed in its properties but willing to humour Jimmy all the same. It was worth a try, after all.

"Let's read these books, then," Jimmy said, pulling one onto his lap.

"I had hoped to spend some time with you properly."

Jimmy did not look up. "We are spending time."

"I meant without the books. I've hardly stopped reading for a fortnight, I want a break."

"Mrs Patmore has been imprisoned for two years; don't you _want_ to save her? Or don't you mind that she's trapped up there?"

"Look… why don't we read for an hour or so, then we can do something else." He watched Jimmy rolling the corner of a page.

"All right."

Thomas picked up _Introduction to the Magic of the Earth_ and began to read.

It was surprisingly relaxing, to sit with Jimmy with the sunlight on his back, without speaking. Jimmy's breaths were slow and even, forming a low counterpoint to the sweet, high voices of chaffinches and coal tits. After a while, the odd squirrel would rustle past close by, red fur glistening.

When an hour had passed, Thomas put down his book and moved his coat to sit directly behind Jimmy. He slid his hands up Jimmy's back to rest on his shoulders, and bent his head to ask, "How's the book?"

"No help," Jimmy groused.

Amused by his tone, Thomas caressed Jimmy's shoulders, before slipping his shirt, which was only half-buttoned, off his right shoulder. Thomas pressed his lips to the tanned skin.

In response, Jimmy sank his weight back against Thomas's chest. Thomas stroked the corner of Jimmy's shoulder with gentle thumbs, and slowly kissed a trail across firm muscles to Jimmy's neck, enjoying the way his breathing had become unsteady.

"I love your shoulders," Thomas murmured.

Jimmy shot Thomas an amused look over his own shoulder, a fond smile playing on his lips.

Thomas felt silly and soppy for saying it aloud; as a distraction, he slipped his right hand around the front of Jimmy's shoulder and across his chest. Jimmy pressed back harder against him as his palm skated over the smooth skin.

Thomas kissed Jimmy's neck again before kissing his way back to Jimmy's shoulder and scraping his teeth against the bone. Jimmy made a wordless noise in the back of his throat and reached back to grip Thomas's ankle. Encouraged by this, Thomas did it again, and Jimmy shivered then span round onto his knees, above Thomas now as he pulled him into a hungry kiss. His fingertips were in Thomas's hair, then brushing his temples. The urgency of his lips pushed for equal passion, which Thomas had no trouble in meeting.

 _I'm in love,_ his heart beat. _I'm in love, I'm in love, I'm in love…_

Thomas's own hands ranged over and under Jimmy's shirt, grazing his stomach. He was dizzy with it, drunk with it; Jimmy's warm body and eager mouth and grasping hands and his own rising lust.

Jimmy's hand found his knee as the kiss became slower, more sensuous, and his skin tingled at the contact. Then Jimmy slid his hand higher up Thomas's thigh, and Thomas halted him, pulling back.

"I think we'll have to stop there," he panted, touching only butterfly kisses to Jimmy's mouth.

Jimmy blinked at him. "Why? Don't you like it?"

"A little _too_ much." He raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

"What the hell does that mean, _too much_?"

"You don't 'ave to swear at me. I just mean that… well if we don't stop soon I'm going to be wanting to go a little too far." A sick, panicky feeling was settling in Thomas's stomach at the sight of Jimmy's agitation. The feeling only intensified as Jimmy got to his feet and moved away from him. Thomas stood up and followed a step, seeking the blissful mood that he had somehow shattered.

"So tell me, Thomas, why exactly would it be too far? You like me, don't you? I thought you wanted that."

"I do," Thomas defended himself, reaching out to cup Jimmy's cheek, but Jimmy jerked away. "Of course I like you, Jimmy. Of course I do. I just think we should be doing that, you know, in a building. In a bed. Not on a muddy floor in the middle of a wood."

"Sex is made for outside," Jimmy said firmly, his eyes boring into Thomas's.

"Please, Jimmy…" He did not understand why Jimmy was so angry. "I just can't get my clothes in a mess, or myself."

"You _bloody humans_!" Jimmy screamed, throwing up his hands. As one, every bird within thirty feet of him took off from the trees and flew away. "You're all the same! So afraid of the earth. You forget where you come from, think yourself so above it, so above all of _us_ -"

"Please -"

"Just _go_ , Thomas! Don't you ever come back!"

Thomas felt the tears at the back of his throat, seeing Jimmy's handsome face red and twisted with anger. "I don't understand. What about - all there is between us?"

"You'll _see_ what's between us if you ever come near me again," Jimmy snarled, shoving Thomas back.

Caught off-guard and weak with shock, Thomas stumbled, and by the time he had righted himself he saw only a familiar ball of light, speeding away through the trees.

 


	12. Part III, Chapter 12: Mary

While Anna helped her to dress for dinner, Mary was thinking about Mr Fox.

"Lady Mary?" Anna began, evidently seeing that she was distracted. "I was wondering if you've seen my wedding ring."

"Not lately. Have you lost it?"

"I hope not, milady. It's just that I thought I had left it in here on Monday, because I took it off when I was putting up your hair, and I haven't seen it since."

"I'll keep an eye out for you," Mary promised, her thoughts drifting back to her plans for the next morning. It seemed rather like spying. Her grandmother would probably think it terribly middle-class.

But no, she realised. Her grandmother would think it terribly prudent.

She pondered this as she went downstairs, wondering whether she should tell her family where she was going the next day. She was not even sure why she did not want to, except that it seemed something of a failure not to have been invited in the first place. In any case, Mr Fox was something of an unpopular subject, which was terribly unfair when Edith was courting a newspaper editor. ' _I like him well enough,'_ her father had said once. _'He's a very good horseman._ _I just don't want him marrying my daughter.'_

"You're very quiet, Mary." Tom's voice broke into her thoughts.

Why did all the Crawley daughters like unsuitable men?

"Are you quite all right?"

"I'm perfectly fine, Tom. It's Barrow you should be asking, he's the one who looks as if he has swallowed a spider." Mary watched with satisfaction as Barrow's eyes widened with alarm, and everyone turned to look at him standing by the door. Everyone except her father.

"That was unkind, Mary," her father told her sternly.

"All right. Sorry, Barrow." Even as the words left her mouth, Mary knew that she did not sound very sorry. What she had said was true, anyway: Barrow looked miserable. Regardless, her father started a conversation about a retiring farmer on the estate, and everyone adjusted their attention.

An uneasy meal gave way to an uneasy evening, and the next morning Mary set out on her journey. Mr Fox was in France for a few days, on some business that he had not specified, so this seemed to be the perfect opportunity to discover just where and how he truly lived. That morning, her father had received a letter from him, requesting to visit the following evening to ask a question. They both knew which question he was going to ask. She knew her father would ask about his situation, but Mr Fox was always evasive on the topic, and, in any case, she was damned if she would consider any marriage in which her father knew more of her suitor's fortunes than she did.

Upon that logic, she took the train to Beverley, where Mr Fox had told her he lived. She imagined, as the bus rumbled across the great open Westwood - which had not been a wood for a long time - that Mr Fox spent a lot more time at the adjacent racecourse than he had led her to believe. Its existence provided a good unspoken explanation for her own presence in the town - she had dressed down as much as possible, but still felt rather too well-dressed to be travelling alone.

She alighted from the bus at the edge of the town, just next to the town gates, and set off along the road. A cabman or three tried to catch her business, but they drove on amiably when she smiled and shook her head. The house was less than a mile from North Bar, and it was a passably pleasant day for a walk.

The road was bustling - it was the main route north out of town - and since it was morning, the pavement was populated with more people walking against Mary, into town, than out of it.

Presently, she saw it: a pair of iron gates under a red brick archway, as Mr Fox had described. On the arch, an inscription read:

 _'Confidens absque terrore erit._ '

 _'How curious_ ,' thought she. _'It must be a family motto.'_

The gates were shut, but Mr Fox had once confided to her in a laughing tone that they were rarely locked, because the padlock was difficult and only the part-time stable boy had the trick of it. And so Mary tried the gates, and they swung open easily, with nary a squeak.

Mary passed under the arch and approached the front door. After a moment's hesitation - she was unused to visiting a house alone and unexpected - she rang the doorbell, and waited.

There was no answer for what felt like a long time. Her eyes found the inscription above the door:

 _'Confidens absque terrore erit._ '

It was highly improbable that Mr Fox had closed up the house just for a couple of days, and Mary had no desire to be caught sneaking in the back door, so she rang the bell again.

At last, a housemaid answered the door with her eyes very wide.

"H-Hello, my lady," the girl said and, belatedly, curtsied. She unbalanced slightly as she rose. "Why - What - Can I help you, my lady?"

"Is there not a butler?" Mary asked archly. "Or a footman?"

"It's just me here, milady. Mr Fox isn't at home so he gave Mr Johnson and Charlie a few days off."

"I see," Mary responded, thinking that this might be easier than she had expected. "I am Lady Mary Crawley, a friend of Mr Fox. He invited me here to show me the house and the area. I have had a long journey so I hope you will at least serve me some tea." She raised her eyebrows a little, expectantly.

The housemaid swallowed the lie with no difficulty. "Of course, my lady!" She stepped back hastily. It was clear that she had no idea what she was doing.

Mary stepped inside and removed her gloves. The housemaid clumsily took her coat.

"Now," she fixed the girl with a stern look. "You will make me some chamomile tea and a plate of cucumber sandwiches," she said, deliberately making the order complicated to keep her out of the way. "Mr Fox promised lunch."

The girl, eager to uphold the reputation of her employer's hospitality, listened carefully before scurrying away to fulfil Mary's request without even showing her to the drawing room.

Mary took stock of the scuffed wooden staircase, the luxurious wallpaper, and the wilting flowers in vases. She looked into each of the downstairs rooms and found nothing amiss; they were all perfectly normal, middle-class rooms.

Knowing that she did not have long before the housemaid returned, she ran lightly up the stairs and located Mr Fox's bedroom. It felt scandalous to enter it, even alone. Mary had a sudden flashback to Kamal Pamuk as she glanced over her shoulder before crossing the threshold.

But no demons came to scold her; she was alone as she rifled through Mr Fox's drawers, trying not to disturb the contents too much. She did not know what she was looking for; she only knew that something about him did not quite seem to add up.

It was on the desk under the window, the missing piece for which she searched. Just as her eye found it, her ear caught the faint call: "My lady?"

The housemaid was back upstairs. Mary might only have moments; she rushed to the desk and looked closer. Footsteps sounded from the upper hall.

Yes, she was sure. This was her own missing necklace, and, next to it, Anna's mislaid wedding ring.

"My lady?" The voice came from right outside the door - Mary swiped the jewellery into her handbag, already halfway to the door when the girl looked in.

"Oh, there you are, my lady," she said, sounding relieved. She attempted a smile. "I have laid out tea and sandwiches in the dining room for you."

"Thank you, but that won't be necessary," Mary replied, sweeping past her into the hallway. "My plans have changed and I'm leaving now." She did not want to spend one more moment in this house.

"Oh, but -" The girl caught her breath as she realised what a faux pas she was about to make.

Mary ignored her in favour of descending gracefully down the stairs.

"I mean, very good, my lady. I'll help you with your coat." She did so, and Mary left the baffled girl on the step as she went out into the cloudy morning, feeling not a jot of sympathy for her.

The very next day, Mr Fox returned to Downton Abbey. He dined with the family and lingered after dinner to speak with her father. As soon as Mary had retrieved the jewellery from her room, she returned to the dining room to see them sitting together at the table. The jewellery was concealed in her hand.

Her father looked up and gave her a reluctant smile. Mary recognised an air of ' _Well it's not who I would have picked but I know how futile it is to argue with you.'_

"I'll leave you two to it, then," he said, rising from his chair.

"No, father, I think you should hear this."

Her father looked between the relaxed Mr Fox on his chair and the tense Mary standing by the door.

"Very well," he agreed, retaking his seat. "What's this about, Mary?"

"It's about you, Mr Fox," she said, turning her gaze on him.

"What about me, dear Mary?" he asked, giving a toothy smile.

"I went to your house yesterday."

He looked taken aback for a moment. She might be imagining the slight blanching.

"I thought you were in London?" her father put in.

"No. I was in Beverley."

"I wasn't there," Mr Fox said, recovering himself.

"Something else was, though." She held out the necklace and ring, and Mr Fox drew in a breath. "How do you explain the presence of my necklace and my maid's wedding ring in your house?"

Her father turned to stare at Mr Fox in consternation. Mr Fox did not break eye contact with Mary. "There must be some mistake," he said calmly. "Your maid -"

"My maid is one hundred per cent reliable. The only mistake here was ever allowing you in the house."

"Please, love -"

Mary scoffed. "Don't call me 'love', Mr Fox. You're a crook! You stole from me. And this is the last I want to see of you."

"You blaggard!" her father exclaimed, coming to his feet. He looked ready to run Mr Fox through. "You told us you were a legitimate businessman!"

"I was!" Mr Fox retorted, then, too late, realised that he had incriminated himself. "It's all _based_ on honesty and valour," he continued pleadingly. "But times have been hard, and the moment people see that you're losing money, they lose confidence in you and stop buying or investing. Then you're trapped in this downward spiral. I've been reduced to five staff, two of which are part-time, and I can hardly afford the upkeep on the house. I needed more cash! It was only supposed to be for a little while, to get me over this slump -"

"So you stole from me!"

"Not just you," he sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"I won’t call the police," her father said. “Because Mary does not deserve it. But you will leave this house and never return.”

“Please, Mary -” Mr Fox began.

Her father grabbed him around the middle and began dragging him towards the door. "Alfred!" he shouted. "I want the footmen in here!"

Mary stared at Mr Fox as he struggled, wondering how she had ever missed this side of him.

The taller footman entered the room.

"Throw this man out!" her father barked.

Alfred was alarmed. "I couldn't do that, my Lord."

"Now!"

Alfred hesitated for an instant longer before rushing forward to help her father, followed a few seconds later by the new footman.

"I think it goes without saying," her father panted, clearly about to say whatever it was anyway. "But I withdraw my permission for you to marry my daughter."

 


	13. Part III, Chapter 13: Thomas

The whole house was aflutter with news of Mr Fox's swift departure. Anna happily showed off her returned ring, and Ivy repeatedly pressed Alfred for information on his own part in it - not that he was reluctant to recount his story.

"'E went for a knife at one point," Thomas overheard him telling her eagerly, a few nights after the incident when only the two of them, Thomas, Daisy and Theo remained in the servants' hall. He had never mentioned this detail in his previous tellings. Thomas guessed that he was making it up, an opinion that was lent further credence by the grimace that Theo sent Alfred's way when he said it. Theo had been more sensible in his tale: he had told it once, and never again, unless in private to the girl from the fabric shop in the village.

Thank God for small mercies.

Thomas felt like the only person on the estate who did not care about the event, mired as he was in his own misery. He stared at _The Fae Folk_ resting on the table and tried to concentrate on the words, rather than either Alfred's doleful voice or thoughts of one specific faerie in particular. He cursed himself for falling so hard so soon. He never learned. But then, he had always found destructive people captivating.

"He did _not_ try to stab you with a fork!" Theo burst out suddenly.

Sensing intrigue, Thomas looked up. As under-butler, he should probably stop the brewing argument, but arguments were entertaining, and he had no desire to stop anything that might take his mind off golden hair and perfect smiles for a few minutes. The back of his neck had been sunburnt the morning after the argument. He had been almost disappointed as the pain of it faded; it had reminded him that it was all real.

"Yes he did!" Alfred insisted.

"I'm sure Alfred wouldn't make it up," Ivy said soothingly.

Theo smacked his hands on the table in frustration, getting to his feet and facing Alfred. He was a good six inches shorter than Alfred, but compactly muscled and sturdy. Thomas did not know which he would put his money on, should it come to blows. "You're such a lying tosspot," Theo accused.

"You can't call me a tosspot." Alfred's chair scraped as he stood.

"I just did, tosspot." Theo shoved the older boy in the chest.

"Excuse me!" came Mrs Hughes' sharp voice, making Alfred suddenly reverse the approach he had made towards Theo. "Mr Carson may have gone to bed but that doesn't mean you can use that kind of language in the servants' hall! I suggest you both go to bed immediately."

"Yes, Mrs Hughes," the boys muttered, and did as she said, pushing each other on their way out of the door.

"I'm surprised you let that sort of thing carry on, Mr Barrow," she added disapprovingly.

Thomas offered a bland, insincere smile. "I must have been too caught up in my book to notice."

Mrs Hughes raised disbelieving eyebrows, and Thomas felt an odd stab of affection for her. "Come on girls, off to bed with you two as well."

Ivy and Daisy stood to follow her out, but while Ivy left, Thomas, with his eyes back on the book, heard Daisy moving down the table instead. She sat across the table from Thomas.

"Mr Barrow?"

"Yes?" He did not look up.

Daisy kicked him on the shin under the table. She had to slide down the chair to reach. "Mr _Barrow_!"

Now Thomas glared at her, affronted. " _What_?"

"I'm worried about Mrs Patmore."

"Why? She's the same as she always was."

"I don't think she is. She seems all weak and tired. And she keeps forgetting things. Last week she called me Violet."

"Maybe she has a cold," Thomas reasoned.

"She's a brownie! Brownies don't get _colds_!"

Thomas shrugged. "I don't know what you want me to do about it."

"Will you talk to her with me?" she asked, eyes big and pleading.

"She's more likely to talk to you." Thomas read the same sentence for the fourth time.

Daisy pulled the book out of his hands. "I've tried, and she won't. I think she's really ill."

Thomas met her worried gaze, and thought about Lady Sybil, and gave a deep sigh. "Very well. We'll speak to her at breakfast tomorrow, when it's quiet."

Daisy beamed, and thanked him happily before scurrying off to bed. Thomas smoked a final cigarette before heading up himself.

Upon his return the next morning, he made to join the others at the table, but before he could even sit down Daisy had skidded into the room and beckoned him over. He followed her into the kitchen. Mrs Morris was stirring something at the stove; Thomas hoped it was some warming porridge for the servants' breakfast, not a pot of soup for upstairs later on. Meanwhile, Mrs Patmore was at the table, rolling out pastry. Thomas licked his lips at the sight of it. He had never eaten any of Mrs Patmore's cooking - and now, knowing that she was a faerie, he was glad he had never managed to steal any of her apple pies - but it always looked and smelled delicious.

At Daisy's imploring look, Thomas realised that he was going to have to lead the conversation. "Good morning, Mrs Patmore."

"What are you two up to?" she asked immediately.

" _Daisy_ is putting the crumpets on a plate, as I _just asked her to_ before she disappeared like the lazy girl she is," interrupted Mrs Morris.

Daisy shot Thomas one last pleading look. "Yes, Mrs Morris." She hurried off to pick up a plate.

"Daisy tells me you're not well."

Mrs Patmore put down the wooden rolling pin and turned and folded the dough. "I'm quite well, Mr Barrow." Her voice lacked its usual briskness, and as she picked up the rolling pin again, it seemed a struggle, as though it was many times heavier than usual.

"You don't look it," Thomas accused, though this was the first time he had seen it. He eyed her critically. "You're very pale."

Mrs Patmore glanced around the kitchen; Daisy had slipped out, probably to fetch something, and Ivy was serving the other servants breakfast, so only Mrs Morris remained. She was heaving the pot off the stove and onto the other end of the table..

"The truth is, I don't think I _am_ very well," she confided in a low voice. "I didn't want to worry Daisy… but I've been here a long time now and, well, I think I need my tree."

"Your tree? I thought dryads had trees, not brownies."

"Dryads _are_ the tree. Brownies don't usually have them, but that silver birch and I have a special sort of bond, you see. I've always waned a little around this time, just as it does. Usually it all comes back around Beltane but this will be the second year I haven't done the ritual." Worry lay heavy on her brows as she rhythmically turned, folded and rolled the dough.

"I'm glad some of us have got time for idle chit-chat," Mrs Morris interjected snidely as she bustled past with a basket of eggs.

Thomas lit a cigarette, frowning, and ignored her. "What will happen if you don't do it this year?"

She shook her head, and Thomas saw her eyes catch on Daisy as the girl re-entered the kitchen and came their way. "It doesn't bode well for me, Mr Barrow. I don't think I'll make it to summer," she said quietly, and turned away with the pastry.

"Did you speak to her?" Daisy asked as she reached him.

Thomas attempted a reassuring smile. "She's just a little tired. Don't worry, she's going to be fine."

At least, she would be if he could work out how to do two highly difficult and potentially impossible things in a month - cure Lord Grantham, and free Mrs Patmore from an improvised, inexperienced bonding. All by the end of April.

The task loomed large and intimidating in front of him. Thomas was almost tempted to surrender in the face of it - helping Lord Grantham had never sit right with him anyway - but he felt an affinity with Mrs Patmore now. She was the downtrodden, like him. In a world where his family had either died or rejected him, Thomas's only kinship was with the servants he lived alongside. Even if they turned out to be a faerie with an odd bond to a tree.

Thomas skipped his supper that evening to go to the wood. He took a book with him and strode through the gradually budding trees, wearing the deep shadows like a cloak, feeling as though he had been left behind by nature. How could it be spring when his heart felt so cold?

"Jimmy!" he called repeatedly. "Please come and speak to me!" Jimmy had told him once that the trees would whisper to him when Thomas called his name. That he would always hear.

If he heard Thomas now, he did not respond. The trees were silent and empty.

It was too dark to read, so Thomas sat on his old coat and leaned his arms on his drawn-up knees.

"I don't know if you can hear me, Jimmy, but I need you. And not just because..." His words trailed off, settling silently into the growing carpet of cleavers nestled in the undergrowth. The wood changed so quickly. "Not just for my sake. Mrs Patmore isn't well. If we can't free her by Beltane, I think she's going to die. Please, Jimmy."

Thomas listened to the silence, to the creaking of branches, until he could barely see his own hand in front of his face.

Jimmy did not make an appearance. Thomas was alone, in the wood and in this problem.

Nor did Jimmy deign to speak to Thomas the next few times he went to the woods in the coming days, shouting his name with increasing desperation. Thomas began to consider the terrifying idea that Jimmy might really never speak to him again. _'I don't understand!'_ he wanted to scream. _'We were so good together!'_

After four attempts in vain to speak to Jimmy, and several ignored notes left for him, Daisy found Thomas wiping his eyes in the yard. She left a basket of scraps on the table, which would be collected later for the chickens; then she lingered awkwardly, her fingers moving as though she wished she had kept hold of the basket.

Thomas smoked and tried to ignore her.

"Are you all right, Mr Barrow?" she asked tentatively.

Thomas lifted his cigarette. "The smoke got in my eyes." His lips trembled as he managed to smile, but he must have been so obviously dejected that Daisy saw right through him.

"It's just that you've been sad for days and days now," she said clumsily. "And you seemed really happy before, for a while."

Her earnest expression made him well up again, even as he cringed at the idea that he was so easily read. But then, Daisy probably knew him best of any of them.

"I was," he said thickly, his voice catching in his throat. He slid down the wall to sit on the floor; Daisy sat on his left.

"Is it Mrs Patmore? Is she really ill and you didn't tell me?"

Thomas met her worried gaze and filled his voice with false sincerity. "She's completely fine. I said, didn't I?"

Daisy looked back to the front and put her hands under her apron to guard against the chill as she thought about this.

Thomas finished his cigarette and did not light another. He rested his forearms on his knees, his hands dangling down in front. A cool breeze danced through the courtyard and sent a few leaves skittering across the cobbles.

"So what's the matter, if it's not Mrs Patmore?" Daisy nudged into him with her shoulder, giving a small half-smile as though she was a young creature asking not to be eaten.

Looking at her sidelong, Thomas felt the words crowd in the back of his throat, hover in his mouth. He ached to let them fly. The air was cold as it drew across his teeth. "There's someone I like," he said carefully.

Daisy's eyes lit up. "Is it Ivy?"

"No, it's not Ivy." He smiled. "I think I'm a little old for Ivy."

"You're not _that_ old."

"Well she's definitely _that young_. No… it's someone I only met about a month ago." He paused to consider how to avoid pronouns without obviously avoiding pronouns. It was not something he was practised at; he was not in the habit of confiding to others about his love life, even in the abstract. "We were getting on really well, making each other happy, I think. But then I said something that - something that was upsetting, and we fell out."

"Why did you say it?"

"I don't know!" He threw his hands out in frustration. "I ruined it." He heard the tears in his own voice again and stopped.

"Can't you make it up with her?" Daisy asked after a moment, leaning into him. She was warm against his side.

"I don't know how. I can't even find - her. I've tried everything."

"Well, when all else has failed, maybe it's time to try something new," Daisy suggested.

Thomas wondered if she had got that from Mrs Patmore. He sighed. "Maybe," he agreed, to stop himself leaping up and shouting ' _There_ is _nothing else!_ '

Daisy visibly dithered for a few seconds before leaning up and hugging him around his shoulders. She laid her left cheek on his shoulder so that the top of her head was against his ear. Her wispy hair tickled his cheek.

Thomas extracted his left arm and wrapped it around her back. She felt very small and solid. Thomas closed his eyes.

"Mr Barrow?" Daisy began quietly, her face still turned away. "The person you like… is it that man who Mrs Patmore saw at the kitchen door a few weeks ago? The one who's a faerie?"

Thomas took a deep breath and tried not to sob. For a moment, the very fact that _someone else knew Jimmy_ was almost overwhelming. There was a pain at the bottom of his ribcage.

"It's all right if it is," Daisy added.

Thomas let her go and wiped his eyes on his jacket sleeve again, the rough material scraping his skin. "You can't say that to anyone," he said urgently, his accent regressing in his vulnerability.  " _Nobody_ , d'you understand?"

"I'm not _simple_ ," she retorted. "I won't say anything. I'm sorry you're sad."

"'E thinks I'm ashamed to be with him." The words burst out of him before he could consider them.

"That can't be true," Daisy piped up promptly. "You're never ashamed of yourself. Even when you should be."

Thomas stuck a cigarette in his mouth without lighting it, then took it out to ask: "Have you made any progress?"

"No. The only time the books talk about faerie food is when they tell you not to eat it." She looked downcast.

"We'll find something," Thomas promised. "I know we will."

Of course, he knew no such thing, and Daisy was not even aware of the pressure they were under. She had no idea of the time limit, nor the impending death of the cook and, eventually, even Grantham himself.

Thomas was pondering this four days later as he served afternoon drinks to Lord and Lady Grantham. It was the tenth of April, and Thomas had begun to wonder if he should tell Daisy the full story.

They had found nothing. Thomas was losing hope that it was even possible. They had read _dozens_ of books between them now, and neither Mrs Patmore nor Jimmy knew anything, nor any of the other faeries Jimmy had asked before he and Thomas had fallen out.

Thomas remembered reading in the woods with Jimmy, before everything had gone wrong. He remembered sunlight and silence. He remembered eager lips and Jimmy pressing the gemstone, which he now carried in his pocket at all times, into his hand. ' _Keep hold of it… inspires new ideas. Should be useful._ '

How could he convince Jimmy to speak to him?

' _When all else has failed_ ,' echoed Daisy's voice in his head, ' _maybe it's time to try something new_.'

Thomas straightened up so quickly that Lady Cora's hand slipped on the tray and brought a glass of wine down on her lap.

"Barrow!" she cried. "Whatever's got into you?"

Thomas almost laughed at the red wine dripping from her raised hand. He apologised breathlessly. Lady Cora excused herself to change her dress and Thomas thanked his lucky stars that Mr Carson was not present.

The rest of the drinks passed in a blur, and the moment Lord Grantham let him go, Thomas dashed downstairs to the kitchen. He left the tray on the table and spoke to Daisy.

"We've been going about this all wrong," he muttered rapidly. "There's no point looking for references about something that's never been done. We have to make something new - invent it ourselves."

Daisy gasped. "Our very own spell! Let's tell Mrs Patmore." She dragged him over to the brownie at the sink. "Mr Barrow says we're going to make a new spell to cure his Lordship, so he'll let you go!"

Mrs Patmore looked at Thomas dubiously. "And what makes you think you'll succeed where everyone else has failed?"

"We have to," he said simply. "I thought a potion might be best."

"Reckon you're right," she agreed after a moment. "I'm not going to be able to help much though, you know."

"We'll do it all ourselves, won't we Mr Barrow?" Daisy put in eagerly.

"Of course," Thomas agreed. He looked to Daisy. "I'll meet you tonight, in the boot room. We can start then."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments would be greatly appreciated <3


	14. Part III, Chapter 14: Daisy

Daisy spent the next few evenings tucked away in a corner with Mr Barrow, a stack of books and a wodge of paper. They had never spent so much time together; their - friendship? alliance? - was mostly conducted via protectiveness (from him) and extra pudding (from her).

They went to the boot room only on that first night; it would look indecent if people noticed that they were hiding away together. And so, the next two nights, they sat for hours at the end of the table in the servants' hall, comparing their findings, reviewing the books they had read, and arguing in low voices about what should be included in the potion. Mr Barrow seemed set on putting everything with the slightest chance of being helpful into the mix, but Daisy worried that they would interact with each other and do something unexpected.

"We can always try again," she reminded him repeatedly, but Mr Barrow disregarded it, and continued to add anything with any mention of "healing" or "restoring" to the acquisition list.

"I only wish we could include the stones," Mr Barrow said on the third day, spinning a little black-and-white one around on the table.

Daisy thought back over everything she had read. There had been no mention of gemstones in potions. "Why don't we brew it with the gemstones in, and strain them out after? Like you do with cinnamon."

Mr Barrow's mouth fell open. "You're a ruddy genius," he muttered, pulling the notepaper towards himself and scribbling a handful of gemstone names from _Introduction to the Magic of the Earth._

"The only problem is, we're not magic," Daisy pointed out.

Mr Barrow finished writing and rocked a little, forward and back, his eyes still on the page. "I thought I'd ask Jimmy. Maybe he'll speak to me if it's to help Mrs Patmore like he wanted."

"I hope he does," Daisy said sincerely, hoping he knew that she meant for his sake as much as for Mrs Patmore's.

The next day, they went to York, where there was a large apothecary and herbalist. She had had to swap half-days with Alfred, which had cost her a slice of cake and the recipe for her special plum pudding. Daisy was overwhelmed by the noise and the smells and the _enormity_ of the place. But, she reasoned, it was worth it for Mrs Patmore, and Mr Barrow seemed marginally more relaxed than when he had been poring over books the last few nights.

Daisy wondered if he was hopeful.

When they reached the apothecary, Mr Barrow tried to leave her to get the herbs while he went to buy gemstones. Daisy refused to let him go to a _magic_ shop without her, so he followed her into the apothecary where they delighted the shopkeeper with the size and variety of their order. She gave them a free mint lollipop each.

Weighed down with herbs, Mr Barrow led the way to the magic shop. Daisy wondered what a magic shop was like. Maybe it was full of magic wands and enchanted objects.

It turned out that it was mostly full of books, though there was indeed a pencil holder full of wands, and a display of crystals and gemstones next to the counter.

Daisy left Mr Barrow to find the right ones - she heard him conferring with the shopkeeper - in favour of staring at the over-filled shelves. Hanging from the front of one of the shelves were several crosses made of interlocked straw, with tags labelled _Brighid's Cross._

"Who's Brighid?" she asked Mr Barrow.

He did not look up from his examination of a serpentite gemstone. "No idea."

The shopkeeper turned to smile at her. "Brighid is the goddess of hearth and home. She is the patron of bards, healers, magicians and poets."

Daisy wondered for a moment if she should buy one to help with the potion-making, then realised that that would be worshipping a false idol, and hastily went to hover behind Mr Barrow. "Are you nearly finished?"

He was looking between their list and the stones arrayed on the counter. "Yes," he concluded, folding the paper into his pocket.

"What about labradorite?" she reminded him.

"There aren't any."

"I have some in the back," the shopkeeper said. "If you'll wait here a moment, I can fetch you one."

At Daisy's affirmative, he went through a door into the back room. Mr Barrow took out the black-and-white stone that he had been spinning earlier and placed it into the cabinet. Daisy opened her mouth to ask what he was doing, but he shook his head, frowning, and the shopkeeper returned.

On the way home, Daisy thought about goddesses and potions and crosses made of straw.

"Do you think we'll go to hell?" she asked as they got off the bus in the village.

Mr Barrow looked at her with raised eyebrows. "For anythin' in particular?"

"It's witchcraft, what we're doing, isn't it? Do you think we'll go to hell?"

"Any god that would send _you_ to hell, just for trying to save someone, is not a god you want to meet anyway."

" _Save_ her?"

His eyes flickered. "Save her from Downton," he snorted. "No god's going to punish you for helping someone."

Daisy felt relief and discomfort in equal measure; a half-smile tugged the corners of her mouth. He sounded so _sure_ , and yet: "You shouldn't talk like that. There's only one God."

"I was just talkin' hypothetically."

"Let's go through the wood," Daisy suggested, since they were nearing the turning and the conversation was making her uneasy.

"As you like," Mr Barrow replied, apparently indifferently. Daisy wondered if it was only coincidence that he lit a cigarette at that moment.

They walked along the footpath in single file, their footsteps quiet against the earth. The ground was damp, and sometimes boggy in dips in the ground where they had to avoid it by going the other side of this or that tree, or balancing on the odd plank laid there for the purpose. Mr Barrow's steps were sure and without hesitation. Vaguely, she envied his grace as she teetered across one of the planks. He must have been here a lot.

Daisy thought that Alfred would probably be as graceless as herself with his long limbs and inability to look where his feet were going. She smiled fondly at the thought of him.

"Why don't you shout for Jimmy?" she called forwards.

"I don't think he'd listen," Mr Barrow said, unfaltering.

The path widened for a time and Daisy came alongside him. "Go on… you never know."

Mr Barrow glanced at her, sighed briefly, and began to shout Jimmy's name, though he didn't seem to be putting too much effort into it. He had shouted louder than that when Peter, the hallboy, had left a smudge on one of his shoes.

Daisy stopped, filled her lungs, and screamed at the top of her voice: "JIIIMMYYYYY!"

Mr Barrow looked at her with startled alarm - even Daisy was taken aback by the volume she had produced - and they both burst out laughing, bending over and howling with it.

"I think they must have heard that even up at the house!" Mr Barrow said when he had caught his breath. He was still grinning and wiping his eyes. "Who knew you had it in you?"

"Not me!" Daisy was floating on the camaraderie.

"You'll be a match for Mrs Morris at this rate!"

Daisy grimaced, her mood souring slightly. "I don't think I want to be like Mrs Morris."

"That's because you're a very wise young lady," Mr Barrow said with a mischievous quirk to his lips. "Which should come in useful later."

 


	15. Part III, Chapter 15: Beryl

Beryl had never felt the constraints of being stuck in a humanoid body so keenly as she did when waiting for Daisy and Thomas to return with their ingredients. The very idea of purchasing the ingredients was bizarre to her; the plants were so much more powerful when tended by one's own hand or plucked from where they grew naturally. But, the humans were novices, they were in a rush, and they were trying their best.

Her magic felt so estranged from her; far away and yet only just beyond the reach of her fingertips.

She missed it.

She hated that she had to rely on humans to do magic on her behalf. She hated being so trapped.

Shortly before midnight, Daisy and Thomas met her in the kitchen and unpacked their paper bags onto the table, spreading out everything they had bought that day.

"What are you doing with the stones?" she demanded.

"We'll put them in the potion to brew, and strain them out before we give it to His Lordship," Thomas explained.

"What a ludicrous thing to do." She was dimly aware that the words were spoken out of nervousness, but was too wound up to do anything about it.

Thomas paused and met her gaze. "We have to try new things, to achieve what's never been done," he said, and waited for her to nod grudgingly before he continued his unpacking.

"It were my idea," Daisy put in shyly.

Beryl could not answer; she patted her friend on the shoulder instead.

At last, it was time to get out the copper cooking pot and set it on the stove.

"It's all in your intention," Beryl cautioned them. "You could brew up the same potion with different intentions and have completely different results. You have to know _why_ you're putting each aspect in there."

It was Daisy who began. At Beryl's suggestion, she picked up the clear quartz stone. The three of them held it between them, focusing on the image of Lord Grantham healthy and thriving on human food.

"Clear quartz," Daisy then said, placing it carefully in the bottom of the vessel. "To hold our intention and help it to happen." She stumbled a little over the words, unfamiliar with the situation and the taste of them on her tongue.

Beryl wanted to cry at her discomfort in what came to Beryl herself so naturally. Daisy should have spoken boldly, confidently, at ease with the power she could yield, and instead the words were heavy and clumsy in her mouth.

"Labradorite," Daisy said next. "The stone of magic."

She went on in this way, with Thomas passing over the stones and sometimes prompting her with a name she had forgotten.

"Serpentite, to help healthy energy flow through his body. Diopside, to connect his spirit to the living earth. Malachite, to help bring about our changes."

Beryl practically vibrated with anticipation as they went on, adding water and healing herbs and stirring at appropriate moments. Beryl advised them as best she could, letting her instincts guide her.

"Now stir seven times clockwise - _NO, Daisy!_ The other way!"

It was almost two in the morning by the time they had added everything, chopped or crushed or whole, stirred or boiled or allowed to cool slightly. Her human allies were yawning and weary, but determination seemed to be giving Daisy energy.

When they had finished, the three of them stood looking at the copper pot in silence.

"Well," Beryl said after a moment. "Now we just have to wait." They had opted for three nights to leave the potion to sit in Thomas's bedroom, time for the herbs to infuse the liquid and the stones to diffuse their energy.

And after that, they would find out whether the three of them had achieved the impossible.

Beryl ached to go home.

 


	16. Part III, Chapter 16: Robert

They came out of nowhere. After lunch one quiet afternoon, Robert had gone to the library to finish looking over some documents, when a knock came at the door.

"Come."

He turned to see that Barrow had entered the room, along with a twitchy-looking maid. "May Daisy and I discuss something with you, my Lord?"

Ah, Daisy, that was her name. She was a kitchen maid, wasn't she? "You may," he allowed, gesturing for them to stand a little closer.

When they were standing before him, Barrow spoke again: "It's something of a delicate matter, my Lord."

Robert glanced from the under-butler to the kitchen maid. With anyone else, he would now have been expecting to hear that he had made the girl pregnant, but with Barrow, he would not have believed it for a second.

"It concerns Mrs Patmore," Barrow went on, and Robert felt a sudden chill. Nobody had dared question him about Mrs Patmore in the whole time she had worked there - not in any way he couldn't laugh off, in any case. Something told him that nothing about this conversation was going to make him laugh.

"We know who she is, my Lord. Or rather, what. We know that she's a brownie."

If Robert had not already been sitting down, he would have staggered for a chair now. _'I remember when you were a footman_ ,' he thought dazedly. Barrow had paused for a moment, as though to check his reaction, and when Robert found himself unable to form any reply, he went on. "We also know that you have - ah - employed her because you need her to make you faerie food."

"What is the meaning of this?" Robert demanded, finding his voice at last.

"We want to help, your Lordship," the kitchen maid - Daisy - piped up.

"What are you talking about?" He was breathing hard at the shock they had delivered, at the indignity of being offered this kind of help.

"We have - discovered something that purports to be a cure for your ailment." Barrow took a stoppered milk bottle from behind his back, and Robert stared at it. Barrow held the bottle out to him. Robert took it without thinking and looked at the greenish liquid. It looked like nothing so much as pond water.

"Where did you come by this?" he asked cautiously.

"In York, your Lordship, in a certain shop."

Robert gripped the cold bottle in both hand. This might be the answer to the last year-and-a-half. This might be an end to packed lunches and carefully scheduling visits to avoid mealtimes, to forcing down food that tasted of ash and did nothing to quell his hunger when meals by other hands could not be avoided. And yet - "How can I trust that this is genuine?" he asked gravely.

Daisy gasped. "We wouldn't hurt you, your Lordship!"

Looking at her earnest expression, Robert believed her. Which did not necessarily mean that she was not being led on. He looked back to Barrow, a far less trustworthy prospect, but even his face looked open. In any case, he would never have thought the man capable of _murder_ , and if his intention was to cause mischief with a spiked bottle of pop then he had chosen precisely the wrong moment to do it: there was plenty of time for him to recover before dinner.

Barrow would never be so sloppy.

This, more than anything, convinced him of their innocence. Even if the pair of them had been deceived by a silver-tongued salesman, he trusted their integrity.

In any case, the last time Robert had encountered something claimed to be magic, it had turned out to be true.

All this tumbled through his brain in a few breaths. By the time his gaze returned to the unappealing draught in his hand, his mind was made up. He uncapped the bottle, raised it to his lips, and drank every drop.

The potion slid easily down his throat. It did at least taste better than it looked, but it would never be his preferred drink at dinnertime.

He did not feel any different.

"Have you brought some food?" he asked urgently.

Daisy handed over a piece of fruit cake wrapped in paper. Robert uncovered a corner and took a bite straight from the slice, wondering what his mother would say if she walked in on him being so unmannered.

The cake was disgusting. The raisins were like tiny slugs, with no sense of sweetness. The cake itself was dry and tasteless even though he could feel the moisture on his fingers.

"Perhaps it takes a little time to work," Barrow suggested, interpreting his expression correctly.

To cover his disappointment, Robert told the two servants that he would try later, and dismissed them from the library with perfunctory thanks.

Alone, he walked to the library window, looking out at the grounds.

 


	17. Part III, Chapter 17: Thomas

The afternoon was tortuous. Thomas supervised Theo and Alfred clearing the lunch table, but he was so distracted that they could have danced a cancan on the table without him noticing. Would their potion work?

Once he had checked all the crockery and glassware back to their cabinets (and then double-checked them, to make up for his state of distraction), Thomas had an hour or so to himself.

Usually, he would be happy for this quiet hour, but lately he had been filling his time with reading about spells and potions and faeries, and there seemed no need for that now. Without it, he didn't quite know what to do with himself.

In the servants' hall, he smoked four cigarettes end-to-end before deciding that he ought to spend his time more productively, or he would make himself sick. To balance out the smoking, he went for a walk, deliberately leaving the cigarettes behind. He made his way down the hedge-lined gravel path out the back.

It was the not-knowing that rankled so, being caught between the tasks of curing Lord Grantham and persuading him to free Mrs Patmore. Thomas was sure he would.

Reasonably sure.

But then, if someone had asked him a few weeks ago whether Lord Grantham had not only employed, but also magically enslaved a faerie, he would have been just as sure that the answer was no.

When Thomas passed the greenhouse at the end of the path, he found himself assaulted with memories of when things had been good between he and Jimmy: kisses and smiles, the rain falling down upon the roof.

 _'You'll get over it,'_ he told himself. _'You're lonely but you'll survive.'_

Thomas walked around the grounds for a while, feeling even more keyed up, before returning to the servants' hall. As he came through the back door, Peter-the-hallboy hurried down the corridor.

At the sight of Thomas, a look of great relief spread over his face. This was not an expression Thomas was used to inspiring in hallboys. He scowled a little in an attempt to restore some of the natural order of things, but the boy only slid to a halt and said: "Lord Grantham said to tell you that the dinner arrangements will not be changed from yesterday." Peter allowed himself a slight frown at the end of his sentence, probably wondering why a message of "nothing is different" needed to be conveyed.

Thomas, however, understood all too well, and he felt as though the boy had stuck a pin in his stomach, deflating him.

He walked numbly into the kitchen, where Daisy and Mrs Patmore's glum faces told him immediately that they knew. Just in case, he said: "Peter told you, then?"

They both nodded.

"We can try again tomorrow," Daisy said.

It was Thomas's turn to nod, even as he wondered what else they could possibly do. They had put everything they had into that potion, and if it was a case of some of the ingredients cancelling each other out, it could take weeks or months of experimentation to work out a combination that worked. If it ever did.

He was still pondering this as he made his way upstairs that night and dressed for bed.

It felt only poetic and right for him to lie sleeplessly until the small hours, but in truth the adrenaline and disappointment had left him exhausted, and he fell asleep as naturally as usual.

His reason for waking was, he thought at first, perfectly usual too. Thomas was accustomed to being woken by a knocking at the door by the most luckless of the hallboys.

He was never usually _quite_ this tired when he awoke, though, and as consciousness began to trickle back into his skull, Thomas realised that the knocking was coming not from his door, but his _window_ , and there was no square of dawn light on the floor next to his bed as there usually was. The room was still almost as black as coal.

As the knocking resumed, Thomas sat up reluctantly to answer it, before coming fully to his senses with the realisation that the whole notion was ludicrous. His bedroom was in the attic; why would anybody be knocking on the window?

Determined to find out what was going on, despite feeling strangely vulnerable in his pyjamas, Thomas strode over and flung his curtains open. And gaped.

There, looking through the glass with the moon behind his head, was Jimmy.

Thomas felt all the breath go out of him at the sight. With trembling fingers, he unlatched the window and threw up the sash.

"May I come in?" Jimmy's voice was even. His face was too shadowed to make out his expression.

Thomas nodded and stepped back, before turning away to light the candle he kept on his bedside table. He did not turn around until Jimmy slid the window shut with a _shh_ sound.

Jimmy looked nervous. There was a tightness to his mouth, and his head was slightly bowed. His hair fell over one eye like the branches of a weeping willow.

Thomas, who had longed for this moment ever since Jimmy had floated away from him in the wood, could not find a single word to say.

"I heard that you tried to cure Lord Grantham," Jimmy said at last, breaking the silence between them. His eyes were fixed on a spot on the floor somewhere in front of Thomas's feet.

"How?"

"One of the bird fae felt the potion, and kept an eye out. It's true, then?"

"Yes. It didn't work, but we couldn't abandon Mrs Patmore just because you weren't there." As the amazement at seeing Jimmy faded, the hurt he had felt at being abandoned was flooding back to take its place. "Didn't you hear me calling?"

"I knew you were calling, but that was all."

"Mrs Patmore's going to die if we can't free her before Beltane. Which you'd know, if you'd been here," Thomas added, his voice hard to cover his upset.

Jimmy nodded, twisting his hands in front of himself. "I'm sorry. For… reacting like I did. I-I thought…"

Thomas's anger drained out of him. "You thought I was ashamed of you," he finished wearily, and Jimmy was startled into meeting his eyes for a moment.

"Suppose I did, at that," he admitted quietly.

"I used to think you were brave," Thomas said, thinking back to that first night of dancing on the village green. He had thought it was courage that allowed Jimmy to be himself in the open like that. But it was not the same when nobody could see him and the consequences of people knowing were almost nothing. "But you're not brave at all, are you? You just weren't afraid. But when it counts… when you're scared… you just run."

"I'm sorry." Jimmy's face was tight. "I see now that… that I was wrong. You're still trying to help Mrs Patmore. I can see that you do…" His voice choked on the next word: " _value_ us. But I just don't understand, Thomas." Here he looked up beseechingly through his fringe, and Thomas's stomach clenched. "That day, why did you stop us? Why are you so afraid of the earth?"

"I'm not _afraid_ of it. And I'm truly sorry that I made you think I was ashamed of you. It's just that I do have to look respectable and keep my clothes clean if I want any chance of keeping my job and buying a house one day." Internally, Thomas cringed at revealing this last part; he had never shared that dream with anyone.

Naturally, Jimmy picked up on the one bit Thomas wished he would ignore. "A house?"

Thomas ran his fingers through his hair. "Yes. One day, I'd like to retire and buy myself a house. I've been savin' up." Ever since he had lost all his money on that black-market _rubbish_ , he had vowed to take less risks - financially, at least.

"What do you want a house for?" Jimmy half-squinted as he tried to understand.

"A roof. A safe place to sleep. Somewhere to read the paper and listen to the rain." Sometimes the image of it in his head felt more real to him than his own bedroom.

Jimmy was quiet for a while, looking down at his shoes. "That sounds nice." He smiled at Thomas timidly, and the tension melted from the room.

Thomas padded across the floor and slipped his fingers between Jimmy's. "I'm sorry I hurt you," he said plainly.

"I understand now," Jimmy said, looking up seriously into Thomas's face and squeezing his hand. "And I forgive you, of course I do. I'm sorry I ran away."

Thomas rested his forehead against Jimmy's. "I understand," he echoed - how could he not understand the fear of being considered shameful and unimportant, when he had spent two years feeling like the Duke of Crowborough's dirty little secret? Philip had, on the surface, been good enough to him, but his casual attitude towards Thomas had always made Thomas painfully aware of how thoughtlessly he would throw Thomas over when it was time for him to marry and keep up his family name. Philip had also thrived on make-up sex, but it had always made Thomas feel faintly used. He did not want his and Jimmy's first time together to feel like that. "An' I forgive you."

"Can I stay tonight?" Jimmy murmured.

"Yes." Thomas smiled shyly. "I'd like that. But no hanky-panky, eh? Not tonight."

"All right," Jimmy agreed easily. He slipped his hand free and wrapped warm arms around Thomas's waist, burying his face in the corner of Thomas's neck. His breath sighed against Thomas's skin and his voice rumbled in his chest as he said: "I missed you."

Thomas's heart swelled as he wrapped his own arms around Jimmy. He felt indescribably relieved to feel Jimmy's warm skin, even through his shirt, under his fingers. "D'you want to borrow some pyjamas?" he asked, his voice husky with emotion. The question was so practical, so intimate and domestic; it felt somehow more real than their encounters in the wood, which had seemed, at times, like a blissful dream.

"No. I'll just take my shirt off." Jimmy withdrew his arms from around Thomas's body and toyed with his own top button. "If you think you can handle it, Sir Thomas." He smirked wickedly as he slid the button free and moved his hands to the next one.

"We'll have to see, won't we?" Thomas replied, managing to sound teasing as he touched his right hand to the smooth skin being uncovered at Jimmy's collar. A pleasant heaviness settled in his stomach at the sight of Jimmy undressing, even slightly, while looking straight up into Thomas's eyes.

As the last button was undone and the shirt slid from Jimmy's arms onto the floor at his feet, they came together for a slow, sensual kiss. Jimmy nipped gently at Thomas's lips.

Thomas pulled reluctantly away and ran the fingers of his left hand through Jimmy's errant fringe, sweeping it out of his face.

His ungloved left hand, he remembered now. After the initial stab of surprise, he found that he did not mind Jimmy seeing his means of getting home from the war. He wore the glove at work because the scar was considered unsuitable for the family to see, and he wore it in company out of habit and to avoid depressing questions about the war, but he had never been _ashamed_ of the scar. It was part of him. Few people would understand his pride at taking matters into his own hands (or hand) and putting his hand up above the line of the trench to be shot; but there it was. Thomas never doubted that he had done the right thing.

Jimmy, for his part - though the scar had just been waved in front of his face - did not react to it.

"Time for bed," Thomas said tenderly.

Jimmy nodded and led the way, slipping under the covers to lie on his left side. Thomas blew out the candle and followed. They had not drawn the curtains, so moonlight flooded through the window to highlight strands of Jimmy's hair. Thomas fit his body against Jimmy's back, trailing his fingers up Jimmy's arm, over his shoulder, and down to embrace around his bare chest.

Jimmy arched his back, rubbing himself deliberately against Thomas's crotch and making Thomas breathe in sharply at the sensation. He propped himself up on one elbow; Jimmy turned his head to meet Thomas's gaze innocently.

"We'll 'ave none of that," Thomas ordered, mock-sternly.

The moonlight shone in Jimmy's eyes as he smiled up at Thomas beatifically, as though they were sharing some lovely secret. Which, in a way, they were.

Thomas used his right hand to stroke through Jimmy's hair, twirling the golden strands between his fingers. The slight wave of it recalled an old nursery rhyme to his mind. "Curly locks, curly locks, wilt thou be mine?" he murmured.

"It's not that curly," Jimmy replied, craning upwards, and Thomas was happy to touch a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his already kiss-swollen lips before whispering:

"Goodnight, Jimmy."

"Goodnight, Thomas."

They settled down under the covers together, as much of their bodies in contact as they could manage, and after a little shifting and snuffling, fell into a deep and easy slumber.


	18. Part IV, Chapter 18: Jimmy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was rather nice to be snuggled up under the blankets. Especially when Thomas was snuggled up there with him.

Jimmy had never slept in a human bed before, but he had to admit that it was very comfortable. Even though his body was much better than a human's at regulating his temperature - he had the advantage of direct energy conversion - he found that it was rather nice to be snuggled up under the blankets. Especially when Thomas was snuggled up there with him.

Jimmy woke with the sun as always, opening his eyes to Thomas's beautiful, sleeping face. He couldn't help but grin, happiness clustering his fingertips with stardust. It fizzed across Thomas's skin as Jimmy lifted a hand to caress his cheek.

Barely thirty seconds after Jimmy had woken, he heard someone making his way down the corridor, knocking on doors and shouting "Six o'clock!"

Jimmy watched Thomas shifting, turning his face into the pillow and letting out a groan, apparently of frustration. Then, abruptly, he lifted his head, squinting at Jimmy next to him.

Jimmy grinned. "Morning."

"Why are you so cheerful?" Thomas grumbled, his words almost lost in the pillow as he collapsed back onto it. "It's 'alf past midnight."

Jimmy giggled at Thomas, a most undignified noise that he would never admit to making.

Thomas glared at him and dragged himself out of bed.

"Don't I get a kiss?" Jimmy asked.

"Not now - I've got bloody morning breath, 'aven't I?" Thomas replied, and left the room. Jimmy adjusted the pillows so he could sit up, pulled the blanket up to his neck, and tried not to feel disappointed.

After a few minutes, Thomas returned. His face was slightly damp. He picked up Jimmy's shirt from the night before and draped it on the back of his chair.

"You're a grumpy sod in the morning," Jimmy informed him as Thomas went to his wardrobe.

Thomas sighed. "Sorry. I'm not good with people when I've just woken up." He left the wardrobe to give Jimmy a minty kiss.

Stretching luxuriously, Jimmy shamelessly eyed Thomas up as he changed into his day clothes. Thomas did not comment, but kept his back turned. Topless, he reached out to the back of his chair for his undershirt, and Jimmy flipped a gust of wind under it to whip it out of Thomas's hand. Thomas whirled around and fixed Jimmy with a hard stare, unwittingly rewarding Jimmy with the sight of his bare chest.

"Don't," he said. He reached for the undershirt again, which had fallen onto the bureau, and Jimmy flicked it away onto the floor. "Jimmy!"

Jimmy smirked. As Thomas reached for the undershirt for a third time, Jimmy pulled it into his own hand, forcing Thomas to come over to the bed. There was a distinctly pink tinge to his cheeks.

"Jimmy," he began sternly. "Give me my undershirt."

"No," Jimmy replied, enjoying himself.

"Give me my undershirt."

"No."

"Jimmy, give me my undershirt or I'll…" He stopped abruptly, looking at a loss. Jimmy guessed that most of his threats revolved around ' _...I'll tell the boss'_ or ' _...I'll give you extra work'._

"Yes? You'll what?"

Thomas lifted his chin. "I won't kiss you before I go."

Jimmy pouted playfully. "You wouldn't."

"You're damn right I wouldn't, if you don't give me my undershirt right now."

Jimmy thought of a way to give it back and save face at the same time. "Maybe you should be more persuasive," he suggested. "If you kissed me now it'd be a more concrete -"

Thomas cut him off by planting his mouth on Jimmy's, moving his lips perfectly, the kiss firm and commanding.

A moment later Thomas broke away, panting and grinning, and pulled his undershirt over his head. Jimmy realised that Thomas had used his distraction to drag the thing out of his grip.

"You sneaky tyke," he accused half-heartedly.

Thomas just shot him a smile and kept dressing.

Jimmy watched him and thought back to the reason he had come. He was proud of Thomas and Daisy (though he had never met the latter) for creating a potion with enough power to be sensed. It was a bird faerie called Lacy who had told Jimmy the story, leading him to realise that Thomas was not as uncaring about faeries as Jimmy had feared. That, in turn, had led to his nocturnal visit the night before.

"I'll help you make a new potion tonight," Jimmy said as Thomas slid his pocket watch into his waistcoat. "I bet no one's ever had a faerie helping with this sort of cure before."

Thomas smiled. "Perhaps not. Maybe we can make it work after all. Come back later then, about eleven. Everyone should have just about gone to bed by then."

But Jimmy had other, more fun ideas for his day. "How will I know when it's eleven?"

"Ah…" Thomas patted his pockets, as if by reflex, and glanced around his room. "I only have one pocket watch. It will have been dark for about three hours."

"And how am I supposed to know how long that is? No, Thomas, I think it's best if I just stay here… in your bed…" He smirked, his eyes locked on Thomas's. " _Amusing_ myself."

Jimmy was delighted to see that Thomas looked flustered. In truth, he had nothing naughtier in mind than some snooping and borrowing a book to read, but it pleased him to give Thomas the mental image to dwell on before he went downstairs.

"You're a pain in the neck," Thomas told him, without heat.

Jimmy just grinned, and blew him a kiss goodbye.

When Thomas had gone, Jimmy lay around for a little longer, wondering at the bizarre set-ups humans created for themselves. Though it _was_ clever, in a way: creating these shelters meant that they could have warm dry clothes in winter without the luxury of being able to evaporate water out of them with a touch, and he supposed that, for such cold animals, it helped to have the four walls and a roof to keep out the chill and the rain. But it kept out the sunlight too, and their rooms were usually lifeless. Jimmy didn't know how they could stand it. He had never left his wood for longer than a day before: if he made it to nightfall here, it would be the longest time he had ever spent away from home.

To turn his thoughts from this, Jimmy pushed back the covers at last and wandered over to the wardrobe. Opening the door revealed nothing more interesting than a few suits and shirts, and a pair of shoes nestled at the bottom.

He closed the doors again and turned to survey the rest of the room. It was bare, for the most part. Jimmy remembered Thomas's admission that he was saving for a house to retire to; perhaps that was why he had few possessions. In any case, Jimmy had heard that footmen's bedrooms were inspected daily to ensure tidiness. He did not know if that was the case for under-butlers, or if it was force of habit, or if Thomas was just a naturally tidy person. This irked him.

Rifling through the bureau drawers revealed that pens, ink, paper and other stationery took up two of the drawers. Another contained two packets of cigarettes and some spare candles.

The last drawer, near the floor, was clearly for Thomas's most personal items, such as they were. There was a long dip pen with a rusty and ink-encrusted nib, a small bundle of letters, and a copy of the Bible. Jimmy flipped open the cover. On the first page was the inscription:

_'My dear,_

_May your lovely sinner's heart find redemption here._

_P. 25/12/11.'_

Underneath was a tiny pencil drawing of a crow.

Jimmy looked at the writing for a few moments, feeling peculiar, as though he had suddenly discovered that Thomas lived in France.

He put the Bible down and picked up the last item in the drawer: a brown notebook that was about the size of a paperback novel. Jimmy leafed through it, finding a few neatly captioned and dated photographs of Thomas's parents, holding hands and looking at the camera without smiling; a photograph of Thomas as a child with three cousins, stiff and uncomfortable in their best clothes; the odd newspaper cutting declaring war or announcing its end; a brown leaf labelled _'Autumn 1908. Thought summer would never end.'_

There was a long red ribbon, like a little girl's hair ribbon, acting as a bookmark at the last used page; when Jimmy turned to it, something fell from the pages and hit his foot. As he bent to pick it up, Jimmy realised what it was and smiled.

 _'15/3/22'_ , the page read simply.

It was a pressed jonquil flower.

Jimmy returned the bloom reverently to the book before replacing everything he had looked at back into the drawer.

Thomas had never seemed to him to be one for dwelling on what could not be changed - he either tried to change it, or lived with it - but now it appeared that he was a sentimental soul all the same. The thought made Jimmy smile as he went over to the squat bookcase and picked out a mystery novel.

The book held his attention for most of the day, which was lucky because Thomas did not come upstairs until lunchtime, and then only to bring him a slice of bread and an apple. Jimmy did not bother to explain that he did not strictly _need_ to eat. Thomas did not return until after dark, collecting a book for himself (poetry, Jimmy noted), and telling Jimmy that he would come to fetch him when the coast was clear.

Jimmy paced the room, wondering how on earth Mrs Patmore could stand to be stuck in this house for all that time. 18 months, she had been trapped here. The idea of being captive in a building, without even being able to do magic, for such a vast length of time - it made Jimmy feel ill.

As the evening wore on, Jimmy heard several sets of footsteps in the corridor, and at last, Thomas came to fetch him. Jimmy followed him down the stairs as a ball of light on his shoulder. He was at least less obvious in this form than if he walked about in his humanoid body, but they would be in trouble if anyone questioned why there was a glowing sphere on Thomas's shoulder. Jimmy stayed close, bright enough to illuminate Thomas's way.

It would be a fine thing, Jimmy thought wryly, if they had got this far only for Thomas to trip over nothing and go tumbling down the stairs.

Jimmy came back to his own feet as they reached the bottom of the stairs, and laid a hand on Thomas's shoulder to keep contact. They went into the kitchen, where Mrs Patmore and the young woman he had seen behind her all those weeks ago were setting things out on the big table.

Thomas introduced them briskly. "Mrs Patmore - Daisy - Jimmy."

Daisy came around the table and held out her hand. "It's nice to meet you, Jimmy," she said formally, looking between him and Thomas.

Jimmy's own eyes slid to Thomas, wondering what he had told Daisy. He knew that humans could be funny about their sort of relationship, but surely not her?

Before he could dwell on it, or even consider asking what she knew, Mrs Patmore chivvied them along.

"Come on, look lively you three, we haven't got all night," she pressed, putting a big copper pot on the stovetop.

"How did you begin last time?" Jimmy asked.

"With the quartz," Mrs Patmore replied, pointing at it on the table. "To hold our intention."

Jimmy picked the stone up and felt out its energy. "Perhaps it has waned since you did it but it's not very strong," he said, shaking his head.

They each put a finger on the stone, and focused on Lord Grantham being healthy and well until Jimmy felt the intention clear and vivid inside it, whereupon he transferred it into the copper pot. He surveyed the table.

"What else did you put in?"

"Just about everything," Thomas answered.

Jimmy curled his lip. "It's not very elegant."

"See!" Daisy said, looking pointedly at Thomas. "Jimmy thinks so too!"

"What wise friends you have," Jimmy said, ruffling Daisy's hair and smirking at Thomas.

Daisy ducked out from under his hand but also smiled triumphantly at Thomas.

"Don't blame me: we're in a rush aren't we?"

"Why are we in a rush?" asked Daisy, her smile fading, and Jimmy realised that nobody had told her about the deadline. "We can try again, can't we?"

Thomas looked fleetingly between Daisy and Mrs Patmore; the latter took Daisy's hand in both of her own. "Daisy, love, I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to worry. There's a ritual I do every year at Beltane, but I couldn't do it last year, because I was here, and I'm afraid that if I don't do it this year… it doesn't look well for me, my girl."

Daisy looked down at their hands, then back at Mrs Patmore's face. Jimmy's stomach twisted as he saw a glimmer of tears in her eyes. For a moment, he thought that she would break down, but then she placed her free hand over Mrs Patmore's. She looked the brownie sincerely in the eye. "Then you had better tell us what to do, Mrs Patmore."

 


	19. Part IV, Chapter 19: Thomas

The three days following their brewing of the second potion were unexpectedly lovely. Thomas felt as though he had finally been able to exhale and set down an over-large piece of Lord Grantham's luggage since Jimmy had come to see him in the middle of the night. He did not feel alone in the problem anymore: there was Jimmy for support, and, now that Daisy had the full picture, he no longer felt that he had to censor his every remark.

Not for that reason, anyway.

The potion-making itself had been almost… fun. Mrs Patmore had led, with Jimmy offering suggestions or alterations at various points. Daisy had been the one to add the ingredients to the pan, carefully counting the stirrings aloud and altering the temperature when necessary. It seemed almost to come naturally to her now; Thomas wondered if she was going to become a heathen or a witch when all this was over.

Behind her, Thomas and Jimmy had prepared the ingredients at the table, under Mrs Patmore's direction. A couple of times, Thomas spotted Jimmy secreting a tarragon leaf into his mouth; he caught the faerie's eye and smiled conspiratorially.

All in all, Thomas felt a lot more positive about this potion. It was something stronger than hope: it was… trust. This spell simply _felt_ right, and every time he checked on it under his bed, hidden behind his suitcase, Thomas had to smile with the sudden overwhelming _belief_ that it would work. The first one had been made by two complete novices and a faerie unable to use her magic; but this time, they had a faerie in full possession of his powers.

The faerie in question came to see Thomas on the second day, walking brazenly into the yard while Thomas was out there fixing a mantel clock. It had been dropped on a hard floor, causing the mechanism to fall out. Ideally, he should have waited for a warmer day to do such a thing outside, but he was keen to have a few moments to himself after lunch. Thomas was reminded instantly of the first time Jimmy had been there, when he had fled from the building, afraid that he would be trapped there.

Thomas wondered if he was afraid now.

He did not appear so, when he sat close to Thomas at the table. His warm thigh just rested against Thomas's left one.

"Why are you always so warm?" Thomas demanded, when he had meant to say hello.

From the way Jimmy grinned at him, he did not appear to mind. "Better homeostasis," he replied, then leant in closer. "If you're cold, I'm sure we could find a way of warming you up, Sir Thomas," he added suggestively. He reached out into Thomas's lap - Thomas jumped at the contact.

"I'm not sure takin' my clothes off is the most sensible way of warming up." He pushed Jimmy's hand away and furtively re-buttoned his trousers.

Jimmy's smirk widened. "You'd be surprised."

Thomas choked on a laugh. "I'm sure I would! An' so would anyone looking out of the window, so hands to yourself, eh?"

Jimmy pouted, but withdrew to a more respectable distance. "You'd better think of something to say to distract me then, or I'll start thinking of all the other things you could do with your mouth."

Thomas felt his cheeks heating up as he tried to hide the smile tugging at his lips by looking down at the scattered innards of the mantel clock spread across the tray. It felt so good to be desired again. "I could tell you what I'm doing," he suggested, fingers hovering over the mechanism.

"Anything you like," Jimmy agreed easily, leaning slightly against him.

And so Thomas explained about the spring mechanism driving the clock, the cogs, their subtle interplay to cause the hands to move at just the right rate. For most of his talk, Jimmy watched him with a look on his face that might almost be described as fond. Despite this, Thomas managed to keep hold of himself. When he had finished and screwed the casing of the now-working clock back together, Jimmy put his hands over Thomas's to take the clock and examine its face more closely.

"Aren't humans weird?" he said inscrutably, and Thomas could not tell whether he had enjoyed the explanation or not. "I'm not sure whether to be impressed or baffled." He handed the clock back to Thomas, who felt oddly disappointed at the lacklustre reaction.

Thomas lit a cigarette. He cast about for a means to continue the conversation; for some reason it seemed important to convince Jimmy to like clocks as well. "My dad was a clockmaker."

"It's pretty ingenious," Jimmy stated, and Thomas felt satisfied.

He placed his left hand on Jimmy's shoulder, and took a drag of his cigarette. "We're giving him the potion at eleven tomorrow," he said, leaning in to point at the appropriate hour on the clock face with the cigarette between his fingers.

Jimmy took his wrist and pulled his hand close enough to steal a drag of his cigarette, a look on his face like he was trying to be nonchalant. As soon as he breathed in, Jimmy started coughing and spluttering, and Thomas could not help but laugh.

Trying to breathe deeply, Jimmy croaked: "That is terrible."

"Why'd ya do it, then?" Thomas teased.

Jimmy shrugged, not meeting Thomas's eyes. "Tastes like you."

Thomas had to smile at that. "I can offer you better than that." He grabbed Jimmy's hand and pulled him round the corner, out of sight, for a proper, long kiss. Afterwards, Jimmy left, promising to return the following evening to find out what had happened with the potion.

Thomas spent a restless night thinking about the copper pot waiting underneath his bed. At eleven o'clock the next morning he slipped away from his work, hurried upstairs, and strained the potion into a milk bottle.

Next he went to the drawing room, without Daisy this time. Lord Grantham was at his desk again, but rose as Thomas began to speak. "My Lord, we really have found a cure. I know the last one didn't work but we're quite certain this time."

Lord Grantham frowned at him suspiciously, making no move to take the proffered milk bottle. "I don't know what kind of shops you frequent, Barrow, but you're either being taken for a fool or trying to take me for one, and I don't like the sound of either of those options."

"Honestly, my Lord, I believe it will work this time."

"And what makes you so sure?" Lord Grantham challenged. "You thought that the last one would work. You can't trust these people; they'll tell you anything to take your money off you. I'll see that you are reimbursed, but this must be an end to it." He turned to go back to his chair, dismissing Thomas in the subtext.

Thomas could hardly believe that after all they had done, Lord Grantham would simply refuse to drink the potion. He was so _sure_ that it would work, they had gone to so much effort, and Lord Grantham was simply turning up his nose? "Daisy and I made it," he blurted out, deciding not to mention the two faeries' involvement.

Lord Grantham stopped in his tracks, and slowly turned to face Thomas again. His expression was unreadable.

"We wanted to help, my Lord," Thomas pressed. "So we've done a lot of research on healing herbs and such. The first didn't work but we've made it better, and it will - it _has_ to work this time."

Lord Grantham strode over and took the bottle from Thomas's hand, staring into its depths. "You cooked this up with a _kitchen maid_?" he said, sound faintly appalled.

Thomas neglected to point out that if one was going to 'cook something up', a kitchen maid was precisely the most sensible person to have on your side. "We're just trying to help, your Lordship," Thomas appealed. "We know how difficult things have been for you, especially since Lady Sybil passed away." Thomas hoped that mentioning her, without directly connecting her or accusing Grantham, would call up some of his guilt over his actions with the ill-judged specialist without making him defensive. He brought out his master stroke: "I know she would hate to have seen you like this."

Lord Grantham looked at him sharply. "I shall ignore your impertinence, only because I know how fond of her you were, but I strongly suggest that you do not repeat it."

"Of course, my Lord," Thomas replied, inclining his head. "I only hope that you will find it in your heart to trust me, as she always did." He held Grantham's eye, a gesture that on any other day would have earned him at the very least a sharp reprimand, but today Grantham only looked back at him, frowning, keeping Thomas on tenterhooks.

"I shall drink it, Barrow, as a personal favour to you, but this will be the last time I indulge you on anything of the sort and I expect not to hear a word on the subject again."

"Very good, my Lord," Thomas agreed, hoping harder than ever that this potion would work, and he would not have to stand here in another three days' time, trying to persuade him to drink.

Thomas watched with rapt attention as Grantham uncorked the bottle with a pop. He brought the bottle to his lips and drank carefully, as though to avoid spilling any. Thomas watched the liquid disappearing down his throat until the bottle was empty, holding his breath.

Grantham lowered the bottle, looking off into the middle distance as Thomas waited. Then he shivered, and looked down at his flexing fingers with a strange expression of wonder. For a moment there seemed to be a greenish glow underneath his skin - the bottle slipped from his grasp and thudded to the floor. Grantham swayed dizzily, and then suddenly stabilised as he clapped both hands to his stomach. "Good God, man, I'm famished!"

With shaking hands, Thomas passed over one of Mrs Morris's mini apple tarts. Could it - could it be -?

Grantham crammed the tart into his mouth, chewing rapidly and spilling flakes of pastry from his lips in a manner most unsuitable for an earl. Then it was gone, he looked up at Thomas, and spoke in a voice rough with emotion; "Barrow. I do believe you've done it. I haven't felt this hungry since, well, two summers ago. However can I thank you?"

Thomas's heart soared. "There is only one thing we want, my Lord, and that is Mrs Patmore's freedom."

Grantham's smile lost some of its lustre. "I can't do that."

"Please, my Lord, you don't need her to cook for you any more, and if she can't get away she'll be in great danger -"

"It's not that I won't. I can't." He raised his hands slightly in a helpless gesture. "I don't know how."

"But - but you made the spell! - My Lord," Thomas added hastily.

"That I did, Barrow, but I have no idea of how it might be broken. I'm sorry. I can't help you."

 


	20. Part IV, Chapter 20: Beryl

Beryl was distraught to learn that Robert did not know how to free her. The potion had given her hope, but she was just as trapped as she was before, except now her only chance of being freed was gone. She had been pinning everything on Robert letting her go when he could eat human food again, had used her precious remaining energy to make it happen. Now he could, but she was still stuck in this dark, lifeless building without even a purpose to sustain her; there was no one to cook for now.

She spent days at a time in her bedroom, curled up within the confines of her many pillows and blankets. She had few visitors; the staff had never quite understood where she was placed in the hierarchy. Therefore, many had remained wary of her, or simply never felt able to extend a friendly hand in case they were reaching too far above or below themselves.

It had never bothered her before - she had no great wish for human companions while she still yearned to return to her faerie kin - but suddenly she felt very small and alone.

Daisy brought her flowers to cheer her up, but they were unnaturally unseasonal. Beryl did not point this out, but when Daisy found her, the next day, weeping over the wilting blooms, she took them away and did not replace them. Beryl should have been able to keep them alive.

Mrs Hughes sometimes brought her milk and honey, and wished her to get better soon. She gently pressed Beryl to eat something, but Beryl had never needed more than river water and the kiss of the sun, and had no desire for more; she enjoyed human food, and always drank the milk and honey Mrs Hughes brought, but to consume any more now felt like surrender.

She did not want to die, but she could feel her strength ebbing away with every passing sunset.

 


	21. Part IV, Chapter 21: Jimmy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The faeries were at least more talkative when his enquiries were to help kin than they had been when he was asking about healing a human. A couple of the Abbey's house sprites sneaked in to examine the golden snuffbox, which they found hidden in a shoe at the back of a drawer in Grantham's bedroom. They could not break the spell; the snuffbox was too powerful, the binding too thorough.

In his entire life, Jimmy had never had so many late nights as he had since meeting Thomas. It did not come naturally to him; he was made to live by sunlight, but at this time of year all Thomas's free time seemed to fall after sunset. Jimmy did not stay the night again, but he waited in Thomas's room. Twice he fell asleep before Thomas had made it upstairs, and once he spent the night in the yard, having collapsed there before he could go any further.

He had never spoken to as many fae as he did while trying to help Mrs Patmore, either. Lacy agreed to fly further afield to speak to others, because Jimmy still could not bear to travel more than a couple of miles from the wood's perimeter. It made him feel nauseated and panicky, as though his heart might be plucked from his chest at any moment and without warning. He hated himself for his failing.

The faeries were at least more talkative when his enquiries were to help kin than they had been when he was asking about healing a human. A couple of the Abbey's house sprites sneaked in to examine the golden snuffbox, which they found hidden in a shoe at the back of a drawer in Grantham's bedroom. They could not break the spell; the snuffbox was too powerful, the binding too thorough.

The brownies' only suggestion was something out of legend: an enchanted cloak of Lincoln green. The stories had it that there had once been many, which were routinely used to free brownies from their servitude. It was unclear to what extent they were necessary, or whether they were more of a respectful symbol.

Regardless, Jimmy had never seen one. He spoke to the dryads of the oldest trees, who all agreed that none had been made for centuries. Jimmy passed the tip on to Lacy, who flew away the next morning and missed her usual meeting with him that evening.

Less than a week until Beltane.

By noon on the following day, Jimmy began to worry that she had been hurt. She was only little after all, around the size of a blackbird, but with shimmering blue feathers. Her movements were usually smoother than a normal bird's - less twitchy.

Well into the afternoon, when Jimmy was in the wood and the air was just starting to turn cold, Lacy finally returned. Several of her feathers were out of place and red blood dripped down one tiny leg. She was fidgety and skittish, flitting between Jimmy's shoulder and various tree branches.

"Found it - found it - found it," she twittered.

"What happened?" Jimmy asked, wishing Lacy would stay still long enough for him to have a look at her injury. There was little that could hurt a faerie, unless there was magic involved.

"North north north north," Lacy chirped, reaching her finch-like beak up to the sky and stretching out her wings.

"How far north?" He tried to follow Lacy's agitated shuffling with his eyes. She had never looked as birdlike as she did then.

"Far, far, and further." She landed on his shoulder and tucked her head briefly under his ear, seeking comfort. "There's a witch in the mountains who has a cloak but she won't, she won't, she won't!"

Jimmy felt her shudder before she flew down to perch on an exposed tree root, hopping side to side along it and fixing him with each sharp eye in turn.

"She won't give it to you?" Jimmy guessed, his heart sinking.

"Never! She calls us fiends and cruel! She won't, she won't, she won't!"

"We'll sort it, Lacy," Jimmy promised, far more confidently than he felt. "Will you show us where the witch lives?"

"Can't! Can't, Jimmy! She'll hurt me!"

Jimmy closed his eyes, trying to think. As he did so, something shifted, and Jimmy became aware of the sharp tang of faerie blood. His eyes shot open. "Were you bleeding all the way home?"

Lacy was adjusting her feathers. "Yes. Bleeding. She made me bleed, Jimmy."

"All right, all right," Jimmy muttered, concentrating on the shivering trail stretching north. "I need to talk to Thomas."

Jimmy floated through the wood, only returning to his two feet when he left the safety of the trees, and ran towards Downton. He raced across the grass and went to the back door, where he knocked urgently. Shortly, the door was opened by a young woman with brown hair and an apron.

"Hello," she said, drawing the word out and clearly looking Jimmy over with considerable interest. "What can we do for you?"

Jimmy smiled and turned on the charm. "Good day, miss. I'm here to talk to Thomas."

"What about?" she asked curiously.

Jimmy winked. "Never you mind."

The girl's cheeks coloured slightly as she said: "Why don't you come in; I think Mr Barrow is in the servants' hall -" As she spoke, she stepped back to let Jimmy come past her before shutting the heavy door behind them - "I'm sure he can spare a few moments, Mr…?"

"Kent. Jimmy Kent."

"I'm Ivy," she said, turning her head to smile prettily at him as they entered the servants' hall, where Thomas and a number of people sat around the table. Thomas was smoking, and in the process of saying something to a woman with dark brown wavy hair who was sat behind a strange contraption with material laid through it.

As Jimmy entered, Thomas glanced up. Jimmy saw his neutral expression falter: he blinked, and his eyebrows raised very slightly.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, not unkindly.

The babble around the table faded as many turned curious eyes to look at Jimmy.

"Could I have a word with you, Thomas? It's a rather - private matter."

"You may. Excuse me, Miss Baxter." Thomas stubbed out his cigarette as he stood. "Ah - Mrs Hughes," he went on, addressing the woman sat near the head of the table. "I wonder if we might use your sitting room for a few minutes?"

"Certainly, Mr Barrow. I hope everything is well."

"Thank you," Thomas said as he walked out of the room with Jimmy; Jimmy grimaced at the words.

"I hope you have good reason for turning up like this," Thomas said, the moment he had shut them into what Jimmy supposed was Mrs Hughes' sitting room.

"I do," Jimmy replied calmly. "We might have found a way to free Mrs Patmore. You remember what I told you about the cloak of Lincoln green? Lacy knows where to find one."

"Truly?" Thomas asked, sounding intrigued. "Where?"

"Well, Lacy wasn't much help but it feels like Scotland. I'd go myself, only the cloak is held by a woman who doesn't trust faeries. She tried to kill Lacy when she went." Jimmy shuddered at the thought of his own leg bleeding like Lacy's, or something worse happening, if he went up there.

"Can't you steal it?"

"No. It has to be willingly given, or bought, or traded. Otherwise Grantham can't truly give it to Mrs Patmore."

"Daisy and I will go," Thomas said.

Jimmy felt his knees weaken with relief. "You will?"

"Of course. You can guide us there, can't you?"

Jimmy grinned at him. "Yes."

Thomas nodded. "I'll have to think of something to tell Carson," he mused. "No, better start with his Lordship. Carson can't say no if Grantham agrees." He kissed Jimmy quickly. "Wait here. Don't do anything… magic. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Thomas hurried away, and Jimmy was left to wait. He paced, agitated, tapping his fingers until he realised that his magic was displacing various papers and knickknacks around the room. He stilled his fingers after that, and tried to calm his racing heart.

After what seemed an age, Jimmy heard Thomas's voice through the crack in the door, where it stood very slightly ajar.

"Mr Carson, I have had bad news. My father has died and his funeral is tomorrow. That's my cousin in there -" Jimmy, peering through the gap, saw him gesture at the very door he stood behind - "who has come to tell me himself, since it seems the post has gone astray. I leave immediately."

Carson blustered for a moment with the air of someone who could not decide what to say first. The man looked as though he was being pumped up through his belly button and letting excess air escape through his mouth periodically. "I'm sorry to hear it," he managed at last. "What shall become of dinner?"

"There is Alfred and Theo to serve -"

" _Theodore_ ," Carson interrupted sternly, though Thomas had once told Jimmy that Carson was the only person in the entire house who called him so.

"I am sure the two of them can manage," Thomas continued. "His Lordship has already agreed that I may go."

"He - well," Carson spluttered. "Very well, then. We shall have no staff left tomorrow, with Daisy ill and Miss Baxter on her day off."

"Thank you, Mr Carson," Thomas replied smoothly, as though Carson had been gracious, and Jimmy cringed at the words. They were so meaningless, or else they sought to even a debt that ought to be remembered and repaid rather than brushed aside with such a remark.**

Thomas let himself back into the room with Jimmy. "It's done. Grantham was a struggle, though. All his talk about helping if he could and now he starts talkin' rubbish about not wanting to free someone who basically tried to kill him."

Jimmy opened his mouth to make some indignant remark, but before he could say a word Thomas interrupted.

"I know. But in the end he gave me some money for train tickets and rooms tonight, since we won't make it all the way. He said Daisy can come. She's playin' ill for everyone else." He cracked a smile. "She isn't too good at it."

"Then it's all sorted," Jimmy breathed. "Let's go."

Jimmy was itching to leave that very moment, but Thomas insisted on returning to his room to pack a few things before they left.

Once he had finished, and Daisy had snuck out of the house with a small suitcase of her own, the first leg of their journey was to walk into the village. Thomas kept going over expected travel times to Edinburgh, where they would connect, and how long they might expect to wait for their train. He was mostly talking to himself but Jimmy learned from the muttered words that they had left the Abbey a little after 6pm.

Thomas set a fast pace, checking his pocket watch repeatedly. He was sure that there was a bus to Thirsk at 6:30. The speed was no trouble for Jimmy, with his faerie legs, but Daisy was much shorter, and struggled. After she had fallen behind twice, Jimmy took her suitcase for her - he had no luggage of his own - and she was better able to keep up.

"Hurry, hurry," Thomas ordered as they drew nearer to the village. "It's 6:27. We don't want to waste an hour waiting for the next one."

When they reached the bus stop, it was deserted.

"Do you think it's already gone?" Daisy asked. She consulted a small board, then looked up scowling. "It's at 6:40, Mr Barrow," she said reproachfully.

Thomas pulled out a cigarette and shrugged, apparently aiming for nonchalance, but Jimmy could see his chest heaving faster and deeper than usual from the fast walk.

Jimmy probably shouldn't have found that arousing.

To cover it, he complained: "Yes, Thomas, you made us rush all that way for nothing." He stood beside Daisy to present a united front, glaring at him.

Thomas looked between them then shook his head. "You're ganging up against me," he accused mildly.

"That's right," Jimmy agreed cheerfully. "Daisy and I are going to take over the world together."

"Why would we want to take over the world?"

Jimmy sighed at her, playing up his disappointment, as a man with a bowler hat queued behind them. "You have such a lack of imagination," Jimmy said woefully. "For a start, we could make sure buses turn up exactly when we want them to."

"Now who's unimaginative?" Thomas put in. "If you ruled the world you could have a car of your own, and someone to drive it for you."

Jimmy had to concede that he had a point, but at that moment Daisy announced that she could see the bus coming round the corner, so Jimmy did not bother to reply.

As they boarded the bus, Jimmy pointed out how silly it was for Thomas to buy him a bus ticket when he could just as easily fly, without using Thomas's money. Thomas pushed him into a seat and told him to be quiet.

Jimmy had never ridden on a bus before. It was an odd experience, to be crammed into a roaring, rattling vehicle with a group of strangers who just happened to be going in the same direction. It was quite claustrophobic; he didn't much like to be so close to so many human strangers, and the fact that he had little control over the bus's movements or when it stopped did not help.

It was only 25 minutes to Thirsk, Thomas reassured him, but Jimmy had no idea how long that was, and it certainly seemed long enough to be speeding away from the only home he had ever known or wanted.

At last, they pulled up outside Thirsk train station and Thomas ushered them off the bus and into a small building labelled ' _Ticket Office and Enquiries_ '. The three of them approached the large, brown-haired woman behind the counter.

"Good afternoon," Thomas said, smiling politely with only his lips. "What is the best way to reach Edinburgh tonight?"

The woman took her time in looking at the three of them. "Edinburgh, is it?" she said at last. "What business is it you have in Edinburgh?"

Thomas's smile did not falter. "Business of our own. Now if you could give me the information…"

Her jaw set. "I'm just wondering why two men such as yourselves should suddenly wish to rush off to Edinburgh, accompanied by a little girl with no luggage."

Indeed, Jimmy suddenly realised that he was still carrying Daisy's brown suitcase.

Daisy said scornfully: "I'm not a _little girl_."

"Then what are you doing?"

"She's my sister," Thomas said smoothly, placing a hand on Daisy's shoulder. "We're going to our father's funeral in Scotland tomorrow. "Our cousin -" he put his other hand on Jimmy's shoulder - "came to fetch us; it seems his letter had gone astray."

They waited for her verdict.

She narrowed her eyes. "You're not Scottish," she said, still suspicious.

"No, but our father always loved the place and wanted to be buried there," Thomas replied, a bite of impatience finally entering his voice.

She continued to glare at them.

"Oh, just give us the damn tickets!" Jimmy burst out.

"Please," Daisy said, more quietly. "We just want to go to Scotland."

"Are you sure you're all right, lass?"

"Oh, yes. Thomas and Jimmy will look after me. Jimmy's even carrying my luggage."

Jimmy forced a smile as the women turned her eyes on him, and neglected to mention that he had only been trying to stop Thomas imploding with impatience as Daisy slowed them down, and was only still carrying the case now because he had forgotten to give it back.

"Very well," the woman said at last. All three of them breathed a sigh and exchanged relieved glances. "Your best bet is to go via Newcastle. You're in luck: the next train leaves in ten minutes." She issued their tickets and Thomas paid, before they went out to the northbound platform to await the arrival of their train.

As they stood there, one thundered past in the opposite direction, shaking the ground and Jimmy's very brain.

"Do we have to get on one of those?" Jimmy asked, hoping his apprehension was not too obvious in his voice. He was already further from home than he had ever been in his life, and these terrible machines sending smoke into the sky only underlined how much further there was to go.

"Unless you want to fly us both there," Thomas replied.

"That would be difficult."

"Then yes, we have to get on one of those."

Jimmy sighed, gazing after the rapidly retreating train.

Thomas stepped over to stand next to him and Jimmy felt the backs of Thomas's fingers ghost against his own. "We'll be fine. There hasn't been an accident at this station since 1892."

Jimmy shuffled his feet and tried to breath deeply. "I wasn't even born then."

"So there you are. There hasn't been an accident in your entire lifetime."

"I was scared the first time too," Daisy said. "But it's quite boring, really, once you get going."

An almighty clattering heralded the arrival of their train, and Jimmy looked up with trepidation. Sickness and anxiety roiled in his stomach in equal measure. He watched Thomas stepping onto the train with his suitcase, but Jimmy's feet felt frozen in place.

He started as a warm hand slipped into his, and looked round to see Daisy giving him a reassuring smile.

"You can do it."

Jimmy pulled his hand away, unwilling to admit that he needed help, steeled himself, and stepped onto the train.

It was not as scary on the inside. Mostly, it reminded Jimmy of the bus they had been on earlier. Thomas was a few steps ahead, and Jimmy followed him down the central aisle until they found empty seats that faced each other. Jimmy waited as Thomas stowed their luggage in the racks that were suspended above their heads, before sitting down next to him. Daisy slipped in opposite them.

"Are you all right?" she asked, looking at Jimmy with concern. "You've gone pale."

"I'm fine," Jimmy snapped. He tried to focus on the blood trail ahead of him instead of the clutching feeling which was desperate to drag him home.

"There's no need to snap at me," Daisy retorted. She looked out of the window for a while, but both she and Thomas kept shooting glances at him. Jimmy did his best to ignore them.

Somewhere after Northallerton, Daisy said: "Mr Barrow, did your father really like Scotland?"

Thomas only glanced at her. "No," he said shortly. Jimmy could not see his face. Daisy appeared to wilt again, and did not say anything until they reached Durham. Thomas was reading a book by then, while Jimmy watched the world speeding past the windows.

"You know," Daisy said then. "I wouldn't have minded if I was your sister."

Jimmy looked round to catch Thomas's expression; his eyes were still on the book resting on his knee, but he was somewhat unsuccessfully suppressing a smile.

"Neither would I," he said quietly.

"You've got the hair for it," Jimmy put in, only half-serious, looking between them. His remark had the unintentional result of giving them all something to disagree over all the way to Newcastle.

They had twenty minutes to wait for their next train. Jimmy spent most of it trying to charm three bottles of free pop from the girl in the kiosk. Thomas had pointed out that he could just buy them, but that wasn't so entertaining, and would not have taken Jimmy's mind off his now-aching head for nearly as long.

Jimmy eventually succeeded just before their train was announced to be arriving over the tannoy. He returned to the others triumphant and they hurried to their platform.

There was little to distract Jimmy now; the sun had set while they were in the train station, so it was fully dark outside the window. The darkness made him sleepy. Jimmy drank his pop, trying to concentrate on the sweet-tart taste as it tripped over his tongue, and felt himself beginning to nod.

His last thought before drifting off was: ' _Thomas and I will have a private room tonight…_ '

It seemed only moments later that Thomas was gently shaking him awake by the shoulder.

"We're nearly there," Thomas murmured.

Jimmy realised that he was slumped in his seat with his cheek pressed against the back of it. His neck was stretched a little painfully from the turn. He opened his eyes to see the train aisle.

When he turned his head, Thomas saw that he was awake and trailed his hand away from Jimmy's body. The tender look in his eyes made Jimmy smile. He nearly reached over to pull Thomas into a sloppy kiss, but then he caught sight of Daisy rising to her feet and became aware of the people milling in the aisle as they prepared to leave the train, and he remembered how many problems that would cause for Thomas. Suddenly he felt all too awake. Thomas's gaze was painful to meet; Jimmy avoided his soft smile and slipped out of his seat. He kept his back turned as he waited for Thomas and Daisy to retrieve their cases.

The three of them stepped off the train and Jimmy and Daisy followed Thomas's lead. It was colder than it had been in Yorkshire. Jimmy walked through the dark streets in a haze of tiredness; he was so weary he could hardly think straight. After he had stumbled a few too many times, Daisy hooked her arm through his to guide him. "Honestly, Jimmy," she giggled. "It's only ten o'clock."

"But it's _dark_ ," he groaned.

Thomas, ahead of them, walked backwards for a few steps, then waited for Jimmy and Daisy to catch up before walking on beside them.

"You're lovely," Jimmy told him groggily.

"You sound drunk," Daisy announced cheerfully.

"We do actually have to find somewhere to stay tonight," Thomas said calmly, as though they had said nothing, but Jimmy could see that he was fighting a smile. "So come on, look lively."

He prodded Jimmy in the ribs, startling him into wakefulness. Jimmy squirmed away from the ticklish sensation, accidentally pushing into Daisy.

"Careful!" she admonished.

"You should poke him, Daisy," Thomas suggested mock-seriously.

Daisy did so, and Jimmy had to jerk away from her too, trying to put distance between them.

"Traitors!" he cried as they advanced on him, arms outstretched. "No, no!" He collapsed into helpless giggles as he tried to dance away from their tickles. "Mercy, mercy!"

Thomas retreated, grinning, and busied his hands with lighting a cigarette instead. Daisy got in one last jab before backing off too.

"Now, look respectable," Thomas instructed, as they rounded the corner and a sign for _The Coach and Horses Inn_ came into sight.

Jimmy followed him through the archway, anticipation coiling in his belly.

 


	22. Part IV, Chapter 22: Daisy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daisy could not sleep. Despite her exhaustion, her nerves were keeping her awake. Every time she started drifting off, another question occurred to her and prodded her eyes open again. What was a witch like? Would she have a broom and a cat and a cauldron for potions? What about a magic wand? Was witchcraft really against God?
> 
> And, more pressingly: would the witch give them the cloak?

Daisy could not sleep. Despite her exhaustion, her nerves were keeping her awake. Every time she started drifting off, another question occurred to her and prodded her eyes open again. What was a witch like? Would she have a broom and a cat and a cauldron for potions? What about a magic wand? Was witchcraft really against God?

And, more pressingly: would the witch give them the cloak?

It did not help that Daisy was in a strange bed, with lumps in all the wrong places. Instead of Ivy's breathing across the room - breaths which always seemed to hold the edge of a snore - Daisy could hear the distant swooshing of motor cars and the occasional shouting of drunken men. The sharp smell of ale and other people's lingering body odour hung in the air.

Around midnight, when she had been lying awake for an hour, Daisy heard muffled whispers in the corridor. Mr Barrow and Jimmy were sleeping next door, posing as her brother and cousin, respectively. They had returned downstairs for a drink after Mr Barrow had dropped his suitcase in his room. They had not invited Daisy.

The key rattled in their lock and the door creaked open. After a moment, she heard it close, followed almost immediately by a dull thud against the dividing wall, making Daisy jump. There was a deep, strangled groan, as though one of them had lifted something heavy. Daisy yawned. What were they doing in there? Rearranging the furniture…?

There were a number of scrapes and rustles against the wall, and then, at last, Daisy sank into sleep.

 


	23. Part IV, Chapter 23: Thomas

When Thomas awoke - of his own accord for once, instead of by the knock of a hall boy - he had a face-full of blonde hair. The light from the window at the back of the room streamed through the curtains, making each strand shine like gold at the ends and fading to almost brown at the back of Jimmy's head. The faerie was breathing deeply and slowly in Thomas's arms, but Thomas could feel Jimmy's fingers tapping on the back of his left hand, which was lying against Jimmy's heart.

To check whether he was awake, Thomas murmured: "Jimmy?"

Jimmy shuffled around until he was facing Thomas. Thomas's hand ended up on Jimmy's unclothed hip. Jimmy smiled - a true, slow smile that reached right to his eyes - and leaned forward to kiss Thomas softly on the cheek. "Morning," he said, his deep voice vibrating through his chest. Thomas wondered how the word would feel if he rested his hand over Jimmy's breastbone.

"Awake long?" Thomas asked, not up to full sentences so soon after waking up.

"Since just after sunrise," Jimmy replied.

Judging by the quality of the light outside, that must have been an hour or more ago. Thomas looked back at Jimmy's gentle expression. "You stayed, since then?" he asked, touched.

"Well, to be accurate, we were the other way around when I woke up. You're a proper cuddler, Sir Thomas."

Although Jimmy said it with a smile, the teasing made Thomas feel silly.

"I thought I'd enjoy it while I could, before you woke up and I had to deal with your grumpiness," Jimmy went on, the smile turning to more of a smirk.

Thomas felt a flash of irritation at being mocked. "I'm not grumpy."

"You definitely are. You're the grumpiest grump I've ever seen."

The words stabbed him in the gut with the fear that Jimmy would tire of him, and it _wasn't even his fault._ There was no need for Jimmy to have said that and ruined their quiet moment.

Unable to muster a response that would not appear to prove Jimmy's point, Thomas rolled out of bed and began dressing in his spare set of clothes. Yesterday's vestments were crumpled from their time on the floor, where they had been dropped carelessly the night before.

As he bent to pick them up, Thomas glanced at the bit of wall that he had pushed Jimmy against last night to kiss and undress him. He didn't know how to recapture that connection this morning.

"Are you all right?"

Thomas stopped with Jimmy's trousers dangling from one hand, and scrubbed a hand over his face. When he turned, Jimmy had propped himself up on one hand. Thomas prayed that one day he would be able to wake up with Jimmy without taking out his unnecessary temper on him.

Jimmy raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"I'm sorry," Thomas told him sincerely. "I'm…" He looked down at his feet. "Not used to this."

"Is that all?" Jimmy asked.

Thomas kept his eyes on his toes, contemplating the value of honesty. On the one hand, he hated to show any weakness, in case someone used it against him. On the other, he yearned for someone he could share everything with, and know that they could handle it. And he wanted that _someone_ to be Jimmy.

"No," Thomas admitted hoarsely. "I'm afraid of… messing everything up. I'm afraid that you'll go off me, and want to leave. You'd be so close but I'd never be able to see you, or touch you." He drew himself up, lifting his chin defiantly and looking up at last. "And that scares me."

He watched anxiously as Jimmy pushed back the covers and padded over to him, never breaking their shared gaze. As he stopped in front of Thomas, he raised a hand to cup his cheek, looking up at him. Jimmy breathed. He leaned up and touched a tender, steady kiss against Thomas's bottom lip.

It was nothing more than a soft press of mouths, but Thomas drew strength from it and from the unspoken words of comfort contained within. Jimmy did not tell him not to worry; he must have known that it was not something that Thomas could control.

"I'll try not to tease you when you've just woken up."

Thomas smiled. "And I'll try not to be too grumpy. I'm just goin' outside. I'll meet you downstairs in a few minutes."

Jimmy nodded, so Thomas left him there to dress and to wash in the provided washbasin. Thomas stepped outside to use the privy and have a smoke before returning to the main building. He came upon Jimmy and Daisy in the hallway, just in time to hear Daisy say: "- didn't even tell me you were coming down this morning."

"What's all this?" asked Thomas.

Jimmy turned to him with a smirk, an odd juxtaposition to Daisy's scowl. "Daisy thinks we left her out last night."

"What?"

"It's true!" Daisy said. "First you went for a drink where I couldn't come with you, and, when you finally did go upstairs, you were doing something else without me."

Thomas had probably never in his life been so embarrassed as he was to realise that Daisy had _heard_ them. "It weren't exactly - a three-person activity."

"I could have watched," she insisted sulkily.

Thomas snorted and prayed that that was not an image he would ever have to revisit. "You really couldn't. I don't think you'd have enjoyed it much."

"Why? What were you doing?"

Thomas's face burned, but now Jimmy seemed to be taking over. He put his hands on Daisy's shoulders and looked seriously into her eyes. "Daisy," he said gravely. "We were having sex."

Thomas's eyes widened in shock. For Daisy, it took a moment for the words to register. When they did, a look of horror came over her face. "Oh!"

Jimmy let her go, laughing heartily.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't - didn't realise that was what - !"

Thomas slowly shook his head at the chortling Jimmy, who did not seem embarrassed in the slightest. "You couldn't have broken it a little more gently?" he admonished.

"More fun this way," Jimmy countered, his eyes shining with mirth.

"Don't be mean to her," Thomas said, though he could not keep the fondness out of his voice. "Now look," he added, feeling that it was time they got moving - they were not here for a holiday. "I'll just fetch my case and then we can leave."

This he did, having a very quick wash at the same time, then the three of them went out onto the Edinburgh streets.

"Where do we go now?" Daisy questioned.

"How far is it?" Thomas asked Jimmy.

"Still too far to walk. I don't know how to work it out."

Thomas considered for a moment, but there was really only one solution that came to mind. "If you had a map, could you sort of - map the route onto it?"

Jimmy closed his eyes, frowning. Thomas and Daisy waited. "I think so. I could try, anyway."

They bought a map of Scotland and a bag of bread rolls from a corner shop, then sat on the wall outside. Jimmy scowled at the map for a while, sometimes closing his eyes to concentrate, and drew a wobbly line heading north. While he worked, Thomas and Daisy ate the bread and watched.

At last, Jimmy huffed and slid the map away from himself. "I think that's it."

Immediately, Thomas and Daisy bent their heads to examine it. The trail led to a small protrusion of land somewhere north-east of Inverness, which almost enclosed a section of water labelled "Moray Firth".

"It's a long way," Jimmy said apprehensively.

"But look how far you've come already," Thomas pointed out. "You've done well. You did say you wanted to travel."

"Yes…" Jimmy agreed, rubbing his temples.

"Let's go now," Daisy said, jumping to her feet. "The faster we get there, the faster Jimmy can go home and Mrs Patmore can too."

Thomas folded up the map and they walked back to the train station, where they were advised to take a train to Inverness followed by a bus to Nairn. They would have to walk the last few miles.

They set off from Edinburgh station with a great whooshing of smoke. The journey was to take three hours and thirty minutes, a nerve-wracking delay considering the task that lay ahead. Thomas tried to distract himself with the view. Luckily, it was a very distracting view.

The map showed that for much of the ride they were travelling through the Cairngorm Mountains. This was a vast landscape on a scale that Thomas had never experienced before, dominated by snowy mountains and towering hills. It was huge, and beautiful, and seemed sparsely inhabited, and made him feel very far away from home. He missed the rolling hills and purple heather of Yorkshire.

When at last they reached Inverness, it was one o'clock. Thomas bought two bridies, which turned out to be beef-and-onion pasties, for Daisy and himself. Jimmy refused to eat the meat, saying that he would manage without. Then they took the bus towards Nairn, alighting at the edge of the town. Jimmy wore a slight grimace all the time now; Thomas hoped that he was managing. Daisy had a look of wide-eyed wonder. She seemed fascinated by everything.

In the eighty-minute walk from Nairn, she lost some of that look. For the first half-mile, they retraced the bus route, before breaking off to the right. Jimmy was pale and quiet as they walked along roads surrounded by fields and trees.

Eventually, Jimmy slowed to a stop. "It's just up there. You see the open area on the right? It's probably best if I stay out here; you know she doesn't like faeries. She hurt Lacy."

"You'll be all right?" asked Thomas.

Jimmy nodded, so Thomas and Daisy walked the last few feet without him and came, at long last, to journey's end.

They approached the cottage, which was surrounded by mostly bare earth. A few twisted early broccoli plants were in one bed, but most of them were empty. Thomas led the way up the path and knocked on the blue door. Daisy fidgeted. Thomas wished he had had a smoke before they came.

The door opened to reveal a surprisingly young woman wearing a greatly-patched dress which fell to just below her knees. Underneath, she wore thick black stockings, and when she spoke, it was with a strong Scottish accent.

"Och! What are ye doing here?" She sounded more surprised than unfriendly.

"I'm Thomas Barrow, and this is Daisy Mason." Daisy stared at the woman, apparently speechless. "We've come a long way to see you."

"Ah dinnae ken ye."

"No, we, ah - we wanted to ask for your help."

"Aye, well. Ye'd best come in." The witch stepped back and let them into the tiny entranceway. "Shoes off, aye?"

A little annoyed to be asked to walk about in his socks in front of a stranger, Thomas took off his shoes. It would not do to irritate her over so small a thing. "What should we call you?" he asked, following her into a decent-sized front room. There were two squashy sofas facing each other by the crackling fire, and another, not of the set, against the opposite wall.

"Marion. Ye sit, Ah'll get ye some tea."

Sitting on the sofa closest to the front door, Thomas idly watched Marion cross the room and pass through a door in the opposite corner. Daisy sat beside Thomas as his eyes wandered across the wall in front of him, where a set of apothecary drawers stood on a shabby cabinet.

"Do you think she's really a witch?" Daisy whispered.

Thomas shrugged. "Maybe."

Marion returned with a tray, which she carried over to the scratched wooden table between the two sofas. "Ah'm after making biscuits, so ye can have some of those, too."

Thomas and Daisy thanked her as she poured their tea, and when they had all settled back with a steaming cupful, Marion asked them where they had come from.

"Downton Abbey," Daisy managed to say in a small voice.

"Ah was never there. Where's that?"

"Yorkshire," Daisy said, looking baffled to have come across someone who had not heard of Downton.

"Goodness! Ye never did! Ye'll not be thinking of ganging back tonight, Ah hope? It's after four already."

Thomas explained that they planned to stop at an inn in Edinburgh again.

"Noo, ye'll stay here, of course. Ah've only the sofas but it's free and Ah'll make ye a piece."

They tried to protest, but she was insistent, and in the end Thomas said carefully: "May our friend Jimmy stay too? He's waiting down the road."

"Of course he can. Why isn't your Jimmy here now?"

"We wanted to talk to you first," Thomas said.

"Och, Ah see. And what'll ye be wanting help with? That's _not_ usually free, Ah might add."

"Naturally, we'll pay," Thomas said hastily. "It's about a friend of ours back at Downton. She's - trapped."

Marion stood, her curly brown hair bouncing at the movement, and went over to the apothecary drawers. "What kind of trapped? Trapped in a marriage, trapped in a cupboard? There's not much Ah can do for the latter; Ah recommend a hammer."

Next to Thomas, Daisy stifled a laugh. "No," Thomas said. "She's trapped by a spell. Our employer used a magic box to make her his slave."

"Hmm." Marion dropped her hands into her dress pockets. "Tell me about the spell."

"It was improvised," Thomas explained. "Gold to bind her mind and magic, ice to bind her feet, and honey to bind her hands."

Marion stared into the dead fireplace. She scratched her nose. "Triple bindings can be tricky."

"We believe that a cloak may be of help," Thomas said.

"Noo, noo… Cloaks have nothing to do with it. Ye brought the box, Ah suppose?"

"Ah - no, we didn't," Thomas replied. None of them had thought of it; it had already been examined by half-a-dozen faeries and they had resigned themselves to the cloak as their last hope. It seemed doubtful that a human would know better magic than a faerie, even if that human was a witch. "We really wanted to buy your cloak."

Marion sat back down and looked between Thomas and Daisy with suspicion in her eyes. When Thomas glanced at Daisy, she seemed to be trying to disappear between the sofa cushions. "What cloak?"

"We heard that a cloak of Lincoln green would free her."

Marion frowned at them. Thomas unconsciously held his breath. The muscles in Marion's face moved as she clenched her jaw. "That's for a brownie," she said at last.

"She's our friend," Daisy said timidly.

"Noo. Ah'll not help faeries." Marion's tone was closed, forbidding any argument, but even as she leaned over the tray on the table and made as if to offer them some more tea, Thomas knew that they had to argue.

"If we don't free her, she's going to die," he said.

"Ah'll not help faeries," Marion repeated emphatically. "Nasty, vicious creatures. Ye'd do better staying away from her and letting nature take its course."

Daisy gasped and pressed a hand against her mouth.

"We'd pay you well," Thomas tried, watching Marion shaking her head across the table. "You'll get a good deal."

"No money's worth the amount of trouble a faerie can cause," Marion growled. "They're cruel and vengeful. They leech my magic, even now. Ah wouldn't wish it on ye, and Ah'll not help ye."

Thomas thought of Jimmy, waiting down the road. He had never seemed vengeful - perhaps cruel sometimes, admittedly, but no more so than Thomas himself. Jimmy had never sought to harm Lord Grantham, even after he revealed that he did not know how to set Mrs Patmore free. He had only tried to help her. "He'll be heartbroken."

"Who will?" Marion asked sharply.

"Jimmy," Thomas said distractedly - he had to convince her to sell them the cloak; he couldn't face Jimmy's expression if they did not.

"Jimmy, the friend outside?" Marion said incredulously. "Och, Lord, he's a faerie too, isn't he? A friend of this brownie."

"He just wants to help!" implored Daisy. "He didn't even know her before but as soon as he knew she's trapped, he wanted to help!"

"Of course he did," Marion spat. "That's what they're like. They stick together like vermin, no matter who's right or wrong. Full of hate, they are."

"No they're _not_!" Daisy shouted, and burst into tears. "Mrs Patmore's lovely, she's my best friend. Please, you can't let her die!" The tears chased each other down her cheeks. Awkwardly, Thomas gave her a clean handkerchief.

Marion stood up and came around the table to pat her on the shoulder. "Ah'm sorry, love. Ah can't help ye." With a quiet clinking of crockery, she collected up the tea things and took the tray through to the kitchen while Daisy sniffled into Thomas's handkerchief.

"We'll think of something," Thomas said, but even to his own ears the words sounded hollow. He knew as well as she did that they were out of ideas, and very nearly out of time.

When Marion returned, she made polite conversation, asking them questions about Downton and their jobs. After a while, Thomas excused himself for a smoke and went out to find Jimmy.

Jimmy was sat beneath one of the trees by the road, so Thomas sat close beside him as he sparked up. Jimmy turned to him at once, wild eyes set in his pale face. "You've been gone ages. What did she say?"

Thomas shook his head and exhaled his first breath of smoke before he replied. "She certainly hates faeries."

"What are we going to do?" Jimmy implored, blue eyes searching Thomas's as though they held all the answers.

Thomas refused to admit that he did not know, and so said nothing.

Jimmy laid his head on Thomas's shoulder. "Dear Mother, what are we going to do?" he repeated in a murmur, as though to himself.

"You're shaking," Thomas realised as he put his right arm around Jimmy's back.

"So far away," Jimmy whined, taking Thomas's left hand; he pulled off the glove and rubbed his fingers across Thomas's bare skin before complaining: "It hurts." He began the tapping again, staccato and rapid.

"What are you doing there?" Thomas asked, his fingers twitching.

"Piano," Jimmy said shortly. "You humans are pretty good at instruments sometimes."

Thomas gazed down at their entangled hands. "How d'ya know where the keys are?" he asked quietly.

Jimmy stopped playing silent melodies on Thomas's skin and caressed the rough scars on his palm. "The centre of the wound is middle C."

Unexpected tears pricked at Thomas's eyes at the idea that anything beautiful could have come out of all that fear.

At the sound of footsteps, they both started, but it was just Daisy - no one dangerous. She sat down with them, twisting her hands in the skirt on her lap.

"It's not working," she said. "We need to convince her that faeries aren't bad."

"But how do we do that if she won't let us anywhere near?" Jimmy asked.

Daisy sighed in defeat.

Jimmy tapped out a rhythm on Thomas's hand. "I just don't understand what her problem is."

Daisy frowned thoughtfully.

"You should ask her," Thomas realised suddenly.

"Me?" Daisy said.

"Why not? Know your enemy."

Daisy looked uncertain, until Thomas added: "It might be the only chance we have left."

 


	24. Part V, Chapter 24: Daisy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas, Daisy and Jimmy discover more about Marion, and the tale takes an unexpected turn.

Daisy slipped back to the cottage with her stomach fluttering.

She had felt, for a moment, a flicker of jealousy as she saw the closeness between Mr Barrow and Jimmy. They seemed so relaxed and affectionate with each other, and she wanted that with someone too. But then she had thought of Mrs Patmore: all the times she had given Daisy cooking advice, or comforted her after Mrs Morris had snapped a little too waspishly, or laughed with her about this or that small thing, and she had realised that Mrs Patmore's friendship was more important to her than the affections of any man.

Her stomach settled and determination sang in her veins as she spotted Marion sitting on a wooden bench around the side of the cottage. Daisy went to join her. Marion was gazing out around her garden, so Daisy took a moment to study her. She was younger than Daisy had expected: thirty-five, perhaps, but no more than forty. Her hair hung loose, and the brown curls bounced in the breeze that gambolled around them. She seemed… normal. If not for the accent, she could easily have been any of the farmer's wives living on the land around Downton Abbey, even down to the vague sadness in her eyes.

"May I ask you something?"

Marion turned her gaze from the garden and offered Daisy a smile. "Aye, ask awee, Daisy."

"Why do you hate faeries so much?"

Marion's gaze slipped away again; she rubbed the back of her neck. "Nasty, vengeful creatures," she muttered, almost to herself.

"Mrs Patmore's not nasty. She's always kind to me. She's my best friend. And Jimmy only ever wanted to help free her, even though he only just met her."

"Of course he did," Marion said scathingly. "They stick together. They gang up against us."

Daisy sensed a great personal resentment simmering beneath Marion's hatred of faeries. "Did something happen?"

Marion was silent for a long moment, looking out at her stunted plants. "Aye, something happened…" she said quietly.

Daisy waited, with baited breath.

Suddenly Marion looked at her sharply. "Ye mustn't repeat it, y'understand? Ah've a quiet life up here; Ah like it that way."

Daisy promised her silence and Marion nodded, scratching her nose.

"It all comes back to Eva," she began, her eyes distant. "Eva was… well, she was my wife, in all but law."

"Your wife?" Daisy repeated. She had not truly realised that was possible - but then, if Mr Barrow could love a man, whyever should Marion not love a woman?

"Aye… We were friends ever since we were children. She was a witch too. She was so beautiful - this lovely auburn hair that tickled her shoulders in the summer. She kept saying she'd cut it shorter, but she never did. Both her parents died young - her mum died when Eva was twenty-four. Well, after we got together she sold their house and we set up here…" Marion trailed off, lost in recollection.

"What happened?" Daisy prompted.

"It was so good most of the time. She painted those." Marion twisted in her seat and pointed behind them to the outdoor privy, a small wooden shed painted blue and with intricate sea-themed designs and swirls all over it. "We grew most of what we needed, and sold charms and spells for the rest."

"It sounds like hard work," Daisy said.

"Yes, sometimes. But always worth it. There's nothing as strong or as satisfying as making a potion from yer own ingredients. Eva was always better at the gardening than me - but she was a terrible businesswoman. She used to just forget to ask for payment." She lapsed into silence again, one arm draped over the back of the bench as her eyes traced the paintings of shells, mermaids and seaweed.

"How did she die?" Daisy asked quietly.

Marion tore her eyes from the privy and looked at Daisy with a startled expression. "She's not dead."

"Oh," Daisy responded, taken aback. From the way Marion spoke of her, she had assumed that Eva had died of the flu or some such. "So where is she?"

"She left me, Daisy. She left me for a faerie."

Daisy just barely restrained the impulse to blurt out: _'You're joking!'_ Instead she said: "I'm sorry. Is… Is that why you don't like faeries?"

"Noo, that's only the half of it. They're draining my powers all the time. My magic has been waning ever since she left two years ago. Ah don't get the customers Ah used to."

"But why?"

Marion shot her a sidelong glance and rubbed the back of her own neck. "Ah rather lost my temper when she left. Not at Eva," she added hastily. "But Ah wasn't too complimentary about faeries." She sighed. "Ah shouted at them. And Ah've been paying for it ever since. Which only proves what Ah said right."

Daisy thought of Mrs Patmore's quick temper, as rapid to fall as it was to rise. "That doesn't sound like faeries," she said. "They don't really seem to hold grudges."

"And ye're an expert, are ye?"

"No… No, I suppose not," Daisy acknowledged. "But - would you meet Jimmy? He's nice, I promise." She waited on tenterhooks for Marion to decide.

"Aye," she said at last, heavily. "Ah'll meet him. If ye promise he won't hurt me?"

"Of course," Daisy said breathlessly, leaping to her feet. "I'll go and fetch him. I won't be a minute."

She hurried back to the lane and explained quickly that she had persuaded Marion to meet Jimmy. He looked up at her with trepidation, but stood. As he and Mr Barrow followed her back to Marion, Daisy summarised what Marion had told her.

As they reached the garden and rounded the side of the cottage, Marion rose to meet them. For a long moment, as she and Jimmy regarded each other warily, there was silence. Then Marion said: "Dear Mother, ye look unwell, lad."

Sure enough, Jimmy's face was ashen, his expression tight. "I'm a long way from home," he replied.

"Why have ye come?"

"To buy your cloak, so we can set Mrs Patmore free. She's sick, and she's going to die if she can't get away and perform her ritual."

"And why should Ah help ye when faeries are stealing my magic even now?"

Jimmy frowned. "No one's stealing your magic."

Daisy thought she heard Mr Barrow mutter: "Maybe they should."

"It hasn't been the same ever since Eva left. Especially the potions, and Ah was always best at those. They're taking my livelihood; Ah can barely afford to eat with what this garden gives me."

"That's probably because your garden is rubbish," Jimmy retorted acerbically.

Daisy widened her eyes at him in warning, but he wasn't looking. She felt a little sick.

"This Eva might have been better, but you're not going to get anything of value from starved ground like this, covered in poison and where animals and faeries are too afraid to go."

"It's just arsenic," Marion said, appealing to Daisy. "It keeps the pests down."

"Did Eva ever use it?" asked Mr Barrow calmly.

"Well, noo…"

"There you are," Jimmy said. "You can't get good potions from bad ingredients."

"It's like Mrs Patmore says," Daisy began. The other three looked at her; Daisy felt her face heat up but ploughed on regardless. "You can't turn mutton into steak, but you can make a very good stew."

Mr Barrow raised an eyebrow at her.

"And what about my spells? That's nothing to do with herbs, Ah'm sure."

"It's nothing to do with faeries, either," Jimmy stated firmly.

"When we were making the potion for Lord Grantham," Daisy put in; "we had to use our intentions. Maybe with the potions going wrong you just don't believe it enough."

"Och, Mother. Are ye telling me the only reason my powers are fading is that Ah'm a terrible gardener?"

"It looks that way," Mr Barrow said, only slightly more diplomatically than Jimmy's simultaneous response of: " _Yes_."

"Goodness me," Marion said, and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "So what do Ah do?"

"Find someone who knows how to garden," Mr Barrow suggested.

"Work _with_ nature," Jimmy said. "Give each plant what it needs, and move them every season so they can support each other and balance the soil. Leave space for the rest of life that keeps it all together. If your soil is good, you'll get good things from it."

"Goodness," Marion said again. She turned and looked around the garden. Daisy wondered whether she was mentally re-organising it all, or was simply overawed by the revelations.

"Does this mean you'll sell us the cloak?" asked Jimmy. "Since you should have no grudge against us now."

"Apart from my wife leaving me for one of ye," Marion said distractedly.

"You can hardly blame _all faeries_ for your _human_ wife's choice," Jimmy said irritably.

"Noo, noo, ye're right," Marion agreed, turning to face them again. "Very well. Ah'll sell it for forty pounds."

"Forty!" Daisy gasped, her heart sinking like a stone. That was almost three years' wages.

"We haven't brought that kind of money," said Mr Barrow.

"Well, that's what it costs. Don't think Ah don't know how rare that thing is and Ah'm going to have to pay a gardener until Ah start making money again."

Both Daisy and Jimmy turned to Mr Barrow, hoping that he had some answer. Mr Barrow looked at Marion calmly, showing no signs of being defeated.

"We have ten pounds with us," he said. "I have some savings, and Lord Grantham will help."

 _'We hope_ ,' thought Daisy.

"We can send you more when we return to Downton."

"Noo offense, but how can Ah trust that? Ah met ye today."

Daisy knew that she was gazing at Mr Barrow as though he held her last hope for happiness, but she could not seem to stop. He glanced at her, and her desperation must have shown on her face because he patted her arm absently.

"What if," he began slowly; "we get a faerie to help you until we can send more money?"

"I can't stay here," said Jimmy, looking paler at the very thought.

"No, another faerie. It's faster than finding a human and it'll show that you're making peace with faeries again. We have ten pounds with us and we can send…" He paused thoughtfully, lips slightly parted. "… another twenty. And until we do, we'll make sure there's someone to help."

Marion seemed to consider this. "Ye think ye'll get one to agree?"

"Let us worry about that," Mr Barrow replied.

"There's not so many about here now. They learned to keep away from me. Ye'd probably have to go down to the beach."

Daisy became impatient. "But if we manage it, you'll sell us the cloak?"

Marion scratched her nose and glanced around her garden once more. "Aye. Aye, Ah will."

Jimmy drew himself up. "Then let's get moving, before it gets dark. It's only a few hours until sunset, and the moon's new tonight."

 


	25. Part V, Chapter 25: Mary

In truth, Mary was more embarrassed than upset about how Mr Fox had treated her family - and herself in particular. He was too bland and passive to be truly interesting. It had been almost a month since they had sent him skulking from the house, and, since then, she had not entertained any more suitors. It seemed… so much _work_ , that was all. She could not imagine liking anyone as much as Matthew, anyhow.

On the last Saturday in April, Papa suggested that the two of them go to London; they could have a nice supper out and stay with Aunt Rosamund, he said. Mary was surprised; as far as she knew, he had not gone to a restaurant more than twice since Sybil had died. When she asked why, he simply said that they both needed a little break. Mary found this suspicious, but it _would_ be nice to get out of Downton for a night, so she agreed all the same.

They journeyed down over lunch, which they were served on the train. When they arrived, they sat in a park for a while, and, when they became too chilled, they walked about the city. Mary bought herself a new pair of gloves, which Aunt Rosamund exclaimed over with what Mary felt was unnecessary enthusiasm as they entered the house to change for dinner. Mary discovered that Anna had laid out the very diamond necklace which Mr Fox had once stolen. She was pleased to see Anna fastening it around her neck once again.

Once dressed, she and her father took a cab to the restaurant. It was to be a new moon that night, and Papa teased that it was a good time to start a courtship. Mary restrained her reaction to a withering look.

"Lord Grantham and my daughter," Papa said when they arrived.

The waiter inclined his head. "Of course, my Lord. If you will both follow me, I will show you where to go." He did so, leading them between the tables and the clinking of cutlery. He stopped by a table at which a man already sat.

"Mary," Papa said. "Meet the Marquess of Macduff."

The man rose to shake her hand, smiling charmingly. "Alistair, please."

Mary eyes him suspiciously as they shook hands. "I'm very… _surprised_ to meet you," she responded, with a pointed glance at her father. "Papa did not tell me we would have company."

"Well," her father replied as they were all seated. "I thought you would like to meet him. You've seen so few new people recently."

"Oh, _father_ ," she said irritably, as her impression of this meeting - or _ambush_ , rather - was confirmed. "I'm not seventeen years old. You can't just put a man in front of me and expect me to marry him. Did you learn nothing from Matthew?"

"I'm just introducing you," her father insisted, unperturbed. "It's always good to make new friends, and Alistair is the son of the Duke of Fife. You remember Alexander?"

"Vaguely, I think." She forced a smile and turned to Alistair. "How is your father?"

"Rather cold."

"Oh dear."

"You see, he died ten years ago."

"Oh," said Mary flatly. She was still too annoyed to apologise, but Alistair was smiling, in any case.

"My mother is fine," he offered. Mary recalled that his mother was Princess Louise.

"And your sisters?" asked Papa.

"Quite well also."

They exchanged further pleasantries before falling into a proper conversation. With a forkful of dessert halfway to her mouth, Mary realised that she was enjoying herself. Far from being _work_ , Alistair was uncomplicated. He took little very seriously and found amusing connections everywhere. She felt no spark between them, but it was nice just to spend time with someone _new_ , especially such a light-hearted companion.

Papa, too, seemed more relaxed than he had been for a long time.

When the meal was over, Mary shook Alistair's hand with a genuine smile. "You need to understand that I'm quite happy as I am just now, but it was a pleasure to meet you and I hope we can stay in touch."

The twinkle in Alistair's eyes did not falter. "I have enjoyed meeting you too, Lady Mary. I would very much like to see you again."

As Mary followed Papa into the cab back to Aunt Rosamund's house, she looked at him sternly. Archly, she said: "If you ever do that to me again, I shall walk out; I don't care how embarrassing it is."

Her father smiled and covered her gloved hand with his own. "Understood."

 


	26. Part V, Chapter 26: Thomas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas, Daisy and Jimmy grapple with the seemingly impossible task of persuading a faerie to help a human who hates them. Beryl Patmore's life hangs in the balance.

Thomas and Daisy rode bikes borrowed from Marion, while Jimmy raced alongside them as a globe of light. It was strange to hear his deep voice emanating from it.

"How far is it to the coast?" Thomas asked Jimmy.

"Maybe four miles. It won't take us long at this speed."

"And what do we do when we get there?" said Daisy.

"That depends what kind of faeries we find," answered Jimmy. Thomas could picture perfectly the grim look on his face. "I know there are some on the northeast coast… but that's all I can sense."

"So we're going in blind?" Thomas said, wondering what they could promise to a faerie as an incentive. "How can we persuade them to help?"

"We can't," Jimmy replied shortly. Thomas saw Daisy turn to look at the featureless Jimmy-light with horror. "Maybe one of the field or harvest fae," Jimmy continued before she could say anything; "or even one of the woodland fae would have consented for the sake of the land - but they would not be so close to the sea. Life is too different there. I'm afraid that all we may find are sandbaits and shimmer-fish, and other sea fae too simple to know to flee from her."

They made a right turn and began heading north-east.

"Sea fae?" Daisy repeated. "Does that mean they can't leave the sea?"

"Some," Jimmy replied, a note of despair in his voice.

Thomas was still wondering whether they could construct some kind of deal. "What do faeries want?"

"To be free and safe," Jimmy answered shortly.

Which did not leave much room for negotiations.

Thomas tried to draw out suggestions from Jimmy to make a plan. Jimmy would only insist that they wait until they knew who resided at the coast, and warn that they should be very careful before agreeing to any deals. Thomas pondered the problem himself, but came to no real conclusions.

Before long, they came to the beach. Jimmy returned to his humanoid form, his jaw set. There were no protective dunes that they might have concealed themselves among, but there were some scrubby shrubs at the sand-line. They slipped in behind these and observed the sandy beach. Curving slightly, it stretched, unbroken, to the left and right, but there was only 200 yards or so between themselves and the breaking waves. Seagulls circled lazily, and seals leapt in the water further out. Thomas breathed in the salty air and thought about holidays.

There were two figures on the sand, and a pile of grey clothing, or so it looked from that distance. One of the figures, which had long red hair, seemed to be arranging shells on the sand, while the other - naked, despite the lingering April chill - was rolling side to side on the sand with her arms above her head.

"Yes…" Jimmy breathed. "There are selkies here…"

"Can they sense you, as you sense them?" Thomas said suddenly.

"Not unless they're paying attention," said Jimmy, absently. His eyes were fixed on the fleetingly-visible grey shapes in the sea out ahead of them. "And selkies don't, generally. Most sea fae aren't too bothered about what's happening on land. Just like you looking in through the waves - it's difficult to see."

For a moment, all three watched in silence. One of the seals hauled itself out of the water and shook, as though dislodging water, but instead it _shuffled out of its skin_. Thomas stared as a grey-haired woman pushed the silvery skin off her legs and left it behind.

"Selkie in action," Jimmy murmured.

The selkie woman was naked, and devoid of the grace she carried as a seal in the water. She swayed slightly as she walked over to the red-haired figure, as though she was moved by a current all of her own.

"Do selkies have a weakness?" Thomas asked, since the bribery tactic appeared to be out. His books had mentioned selkies only in passing, since they were known mostly in Scotland.

"Is that -" Daisy said abruptly, watching the selkie give something to the red-haired woman. "No, never mind."

"Their skin," Jimmy said, in answer to Thomas's question. "If you have a selkie's skin, you can control them." He did not look too happy about the idea, even though it seemed, to Thomas, to solve all their problems. No need to _convince_ a faerie to help, when they could simply force one to.

He felt a twinge of something like guilt at this thought. ' _But it would only be temporary_ ,' he told himself. Not like his own (though rather different) imprisonment, and certainly nothing like Mrs Patmore's.

"I don't think I want to trap someone else," Daisy said timidly.

"It won't be for long," Jimmy replied. "And it will save Mrs Patmore's life, remember."

"I suppose…"

"You go and fetch it, Daisy," Jimmy told her. "That one in the middle of the beach there." He pointed at what Thomas had initially taken to be a pile of grey clothes. Daisy was a sensible choice: she was smaller than Thomas, and so hopefully less noticeable, and would be less easily sensed than Jimmy.

Thomas remembered his undershirt whisking around his bedroom. "Couldn't you, ah, magic it over?" he suggested to Jimmy.

"Not on faerie skin," Jimmy replied, shaking his head. "She'd feel it in a heartbeat and you can bet she'd get it back before we laid a hand on it - and it's physical possession we need for this to work."

"So I just… walk over there and pick it up?" asked Daisy.

"There's nowhere to hide," observed Thomas, eyeing the featureless expanse of sand before them.

"It's the only way," Jimmy insisted. "Go on, Daisy. Just run over there as fast as you can and pick it up. She's far too busy playing in the sand to notice. We'll come over as soon as you've got it."

Thomas watched Daisy watching the beach. She was frowning and biting her lip; she looked determined but scared.

Just before she leapt out from the cover of the bushes, Thomas heard her mutter: "Come on, Mrs Patmore."

Her first few steps were wobbly, her legs stiff from the bike ride and then crouching to watch. But then her body loosened, and she took quick strides across the sand.

The red-haired woman looked up, watching Daisy run. She put a hand on the selkie's arm and pointed. Thomas's heart was in his throat, as though _he_ was the one running. The other selkie was still lying on the ground, oblivious.

Twenty yards to go. Daisy had slowed, the effort of running on shifting sand sapping her energy.

The selkie started towards her. She was faster than Daisy but Daisy was closer. Without discussing it, Thomas and Jimmy stood and began to follow Daisy.

Five yards. Daisy began to bend down, her fingers stretched out. Thomas stumbled - Jimmy grabbed his elbow and dragged him along. Thomas looked up in time to see Daisy snatch the grey seal skin from the ground. She fumbled, almost dropping it, before sliding to a halt with it safe in her hands.

The selkie who had been lying on the ground suddenly sat bolt upright, her eyes drawn unerringly to Daisy. Daisy backed away, even at 100 yards distance, and hurried to meet Thomas and Jimmy.

"What now?" she whispered urgently.

"She's coming over," Thomas said, watching the selkie. "So are the other two."

Sure enough, all three of the figures were rapidly approaching. Thomas, Jimmy and Daisy held their ground; Thomas and Jimmy moved slightly in front of Daisy and the selkie skin, protectively.

"What are ye _doing_?" the skinless selkie hissed. Her voice was deep and snarling as it passed through her pointed teeth. " _Ye_ are kin," she accused, shoving Jimmy in the chest with one hand.

"We need your help," said Thomas. All three looked at him in disgust. Thomas tried to ignore the fact that two of them were naked. "One of our friends, a brownie called Mrs Patmore, is trapped, bound by a spell. If she can't get away, she's going to die. The only way to free her is with a cloak of Lincoln green. We've found one nearby, but the owner's price is too high unless we can get her some help in her garden."

"And ye think that should be me?" The selkie sneered. "Ah'm meant for the sea, not the parched earth. Let _him_ do it." She gestured at Jimmy.

"I've come a long way too," Jimmy implored. "I belong to the woods, hundreds of miles away. It makes me sick to leave them, but I had to come and try to help her. Look, the witch doesn't live so far from here. And it wouldn't be for long."

"What witch?" asked the red-haired woman.

"Marion, who owns the cloak now; she's only a few miles away," Jimmy explained.

The red-haired woman breathed: "Och, Mother…"

From behind Thomas came Daisy's quiet voice: "Are you Eva?"

The woman looked at her sharply. "Aye. She mentioned me?"

"Yes," Daisy said. "She said the garden hasn't been the same since you left."

"She never quite understood that side," Eva replied, shaking her head. "But she's doing all right?"

"Well, she's struggling," Jimmy said. "Hence the need for a gardener to help. She doesn't know what she's doing and it's affecting her magic and her business."

Eva looked shocked.

"You don't see her?" asked Thomas, slightly surprised. They lived barely three miles from each other, as the crow flew. They were so close to each other, and yet their paths never crossed.

"We don't really leave the beach," Eva said, sounding anxious. She wound her fingers into those of the selkie who had been standing by her earlier.

"Is that enough for you?" Thomas asked, curious.

Eva turned a radiant smile on her companion. "Ah have Senga," she said, speaking to Thomas but still looking at the selkie; "and fish to eat, and my art. What more could Ah want?"

Thomas nodded vaguely, feeling suddenly cast adrift. He had never been a wholly traditional person, but something about the wildness and the freedom of her response unnerved him. Eva had been trapped in a normal life once, but she had opted out again and again; and she seemed happy with the life she had made.

"Eva ran away from Marion, and you want _me_ to help her?" the other selkie snarled. She reminded Thomas of a serpent, constantly swaying and showing her seal-like teeth as she hissed.

"Please, Linnea," Eva murmured. "We didn't work out, but she doesn't deserve to starve for it."

"Won't you go back?" asked Daisy.

Eva shook her head. "Ah belong with Senga. Ah belong with the sea."

"It's to help kin," Jimmy reiterated, appealing to Linnea. "If you'll do it, we can free Mrs Patmore and she'll be saved, and, as soon as we send Marion the extra money, you can be free again."

Linnea's expression was hard and unreadable. "And if Ah refuse?"

"We won't force you," Daisy promised, perhaps unwisely. "If you refuse, we'll give you your skin back."

Linnea's eyes flickered between them warily. "Ye will?"

"We will," Thomas said, hoping it would convince her.

"Would _Marion_ have my skin?"

"No," Jimmy said at once. "I don't trust her enough. _I'll_ keep it."

Linnea hesitated then made a sudden lunge for her skin, but Daisy jumped back, out of reach, and Thomas and Jimmy closed ranks.

"Give us your answer," Thomas commanded sternly.

Linnea, her head moving sinuously between them, glanced at all their faces: at Thomas, Jimmy and Daisy, who looked expectant and nervous in differing proportions; at Senga, who was frowning and shaking her head; at Eva, whose expression was pleading. "Aye," she said at last, her longing gaze returning to her own skin in Daisy's arms. "If it's to save kin, Ah'll help this blasted witch for a few days."

Daisy gasped. " _Thank_ you!"

"Daisy!" Jimmy said sharply, as the two selkies bared their teeth at her.

"I - I mean - we'll remember it," Daisy stuttered.

Senga leaned in close, pushing against Thomas's shoulder savagely. "And ye'll remember yer _manners_ if you want to make it to tide-rise."

Thomas tried to push her back by the shoulder, but she was too strong.

"I'm sorry," Daisy whispered.

"Leave her alone," Jimmy said strongly. He faced Senga, squaring his shoulders. Senga turned her sneer onto him. "Daisy," Jimmy said, without breaking eye contact with Senga. "You go on with that skin. Get a chest from Marion and lock it inside, but don't let Marion have the skin. We'll follow on behind."

Thomas glanced to see the white-faced Daisy turn and make her way back across the sand.

"Ye need to teach yer little humans how to behave," Senga said.

"I'm sorry for her," Jimmy said. "But you will not harm either of them." He nudged Thomas's arm, half-turning. "Come on, Linnea."

The journey back to Marion's house took longer than the one which had taken them to the beach. Daisy rode on ahead with the selkie skin in the front basket of her bike. Meanwhile, Thomas pushed his bike and walked alongside Jimmy and Linnea. She walked slowly, with a strange, jerking gait that made her look as though she were still a seal hauling herself out of the water. Eva had given Linnea a cloak to wear, and Linnea held it closed around herself with stiffly folded arms.

As they approached the cottage, Linnea looked apprehensive but not afraid. Thomas guessed that she was unaware of Marion's previous animosity towards faeries, but opted not to mention it. He could scarcely believe that they had first arrived at her cottage only a few hours ago.

Marion came out to see Linnea and they greeted each other distrustfully. Linnea refused to touch Marion or put on more clothes.

Soon, Marion bustled them all into the cottage for bowls of stew. "Ah've no bread to give ye," she said apologetically. "Or Ah'd have no piece to give ye tomorrow."

Thomas and Daisy assured her that this was fine. In any case, it was earlier than Thomas was used to having his evening meal, so he was not too hungry. Jimmy and Linnea opted not to eat; they sat in the living room, talking quietly. Thomas tried not to feel put out, and attempted to concentrate on Daisy and Marion's pursuits of conversation.

When the sun set, Jimmy began to nod. Linnea drifted outside and Marion brought blankets from upstairs (a curtain in the corner of the living room had concealed a staircase behind the fireplace leading to her bedroom). Marion put blankets on each of the sofas, but as soon as she had gone upstairs and Daisy's breathing had become deep and even, Thomas slipped in behind Jimmy, using the glow of the dying embers of the fire to light his way. Jimmy was shirtless but wearing trousers. There was not enough space for both to lie comfortably - not nearly enough - but Thomas lay there all the same. As he fit his body against Jimmy's, Jimmy stirred. He turned his head to look up at Thomas and smiled sleepily.

"You were brilliant today," Jimmy murmured.

"And you were brave," Thomas told him. "Look how far you've come - literally." Thomas leaned in for a kiss.

"I quite like it here," Jimmy said, when they parted, and turned his head again to face the back of the sofa. His low voice rumbled through Thomas's chest. "Though I miss my wood."

"I like this house," Thomas said quietly, slowly curling and uncurling his fingers to caress Jimmy's chest. He could feel sleep dragging on his eyelids. "It's lovely."

"I love you," Jimmy said abruptly. He put his hand over Thomas's but instead of tapping out a tune he gripped it tightly as though he was stopping Thomas from moving.

Thomas pressed his face against Jimmy's neck and smiled into his skin, a sweet feeling of giddy contentment overwhelming him. "I love you too."

 


	27. Part V, Chapter 27: Beryl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beryl had given up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had not planned for this, but the next and final chapter will, in fact, be posted on Beltane, followed on the 8th of May by an epilogue.

Beryl had given up. She was sure now that she could not see out another spring without her ritual and her tree - and she saw no way of achieving those things.

At the start of her imprisonment, she had spent long hours trying to think of how to free herself, but to no avail. In the hallway, her feet would turn themselves away from the door. If she tried to avoid making Robert's meals (she never stooped to attempting to sabotage or poison them) she would feel a piercing pain deep in her temples and find herself kneading bread or chopping vegetables. If she even thought too seriously about making an escape, the pain would flare and her thoughts would scatter like ashes in the wind.

There was little comfort in her company; Beryl was none too fond of Mrs Morris, a feeling which was reciprocated, and the others mostly kept away from her too, but there had always been Daisy. Beryl liked the girl, a lot - loved her, even. She was sweet, and kind, and she stuck to her principles even if they were sometimes rather incomprehensible. She had her faults too of course, being rather too vulnerable to manipulation and to jealousy - but Beryl loved her all the same.

Eventually, she had resigned herself to it - to being a cook for the rest of Robert's life. She could only hope the enchantment faded then. She never accepted that she _deserved_ this life - but it did, in some way, seem to balance.

Furthermore, she was not so very old - and Robert would certainly die before her. She would have her life back then.

Or so she had always believed. Now, however, she was so weak she could barely stand. She spent hours on the cusp of waking and sleeping, having vivid dreams of softly swaying leaves and silver bark. She had not seen her tree in so long, and the want of it was a constant ache in her chest. A very small part of her wished that she had never begun her yearly ritual with the silver birch. It was hardly normal for a brownie to be so mutually dependent on a tree. But she loved it. It was a part of her soul as they waned and grew and flourished together.

 _'And die,'_ she thought, burrowing deeper into her bedclothes as though she could hide from it. The thought followed her, and so she pushed the blankets off and instead dragged herself out of bed and struggled to the window. Leaning heavily on the sill, she sought to soothe her eyes with a glimpse of the moon, but it was not there. Belatedly, she realised that it was the new moon. That made it the night of the 27th - two more nights until Beltane. It was too dark to see out, but it was almost enough to know that she was a few steps closer to her tree from here.

She stood by the window for as long as she could manage, taking solace in the silence of the night, before staggering back to her bed and crawling onto it. Her limbs were weak and shaky, as though she had done a great amount of exercise the day before. Lying on her stomach, her face turned to the side, tears dripped helplessly across the bridge of her nose. Daisy had not been to see her in - she did not know how long, but it felt like a long time.

She drifted in semi-sleep, and the next thing she knew, Beryl was being gently shaken awake. "Mrs Patmore?" she heard a sweet voice say. She opened her eyes to see Daisy.

"Hello, love," she croaked.

Daisy wrapped her arms around Mrs Patmore for a second before pulling away. "Come on, Mrs Patmore, His Lordship's coming to see you." Daisy fussed busily, helping Beryl to sit up in bed and handing her a damp cloth.

"Why?" Beryl managed to ask as she wiped her face.

"He's got something to give you," Daisy said. She looked thrilled, or excited.

"The last rites?" Beryl suggested weakly, but her attempt at humour fell flat.

Daisy slipped Beryl's cap onto her head. "There," she said, smoothing Beryl's hair under the cap. Beryl was too weak to push her hands away or protest that she was not a baby. "Very respectable. Shall I let them in?"

"Them? What’s going on?"

"You'll see," Daisy promised, beaming from ear to ear. She retreated to the door and opened it. In came Thomas and Robert, the former with a canvas bag in his hand and the latter with a very slightly sheepish expression on his face. Thomas went to stand by the window, while Daisy hovered nervously behind Robert.

Robert spoke first: "Good afternoon, Mrs Patmore," he said. It was strange not to hear him call her Beryl, as he had when he was a child.

"I hope you'll excuse me sitting in your presence," Beryl replied. She meant it to sound scornful - it was his own spell that kept her here and weak, after all - but she sounded only weary.

Robert came closer. "I can eat normally again now, as you know," he said. "I'm free of the enchantment. And now Barrow and - ah - Daisy have brought me something to give to you." A half-turn prompted Thomas to put the bag into Robert's hand. Beryl watched, her broken heart picking up speed, as Robert slipped his hand into the bag. The world seemed to slow down as he pulled out an item of deep, warm green. Beryl hardly dared to breathe - she cast a glance at Daisy, who pressed her hands to her mouth beneath eyes that glimmered with tears. As she looked back, the material came fully free of the bag. The cloak seemed to float in its own breeze for a moment, before hanging, olive-green and beautiful, from Robert's hand.

"I suppose you know what this means?" Robert asked, as he literally dangled freedom in front of her.

"I didn't think there were any left," Beryl said, her voice rough with awe and unspent tears. She yearned to snatch it from his fingers, but it had to be freely given.

Robert bent over her, put a hand on her shoulder. "Beryl Patmore," he began, holding her gaze. "I release you from my spell, and any duty or obligation you have towards me. Take this gift and be free."

Beryl reached out, fingers trembling, and Robert let the cloak fall from his grasp as she took it. She wrapped the precious thing around her shoulders. It bunched against the pillows at her back, but no matter, because it smelled of summer and green swaying grass, and it whispered against her skin like a spring breeze and a raven's call.

In Robert's room, a knuckle-sized piece of ice melted into a blob of honey, and a shiny golden snuffbox became dull.

Beryl felt the magic that had been denied her for eighteen months come streaming back. It made her elbows and knees tingle; it made her shiver right down the length of her spine. At the window, a shimmering blue bird fae twittered, before spreading her wings and soaring away. Beryl felt her go and cried to think that she could follow, right out to the woods and the silver birch, in time for the ritual.

She was weak, barely alive, but it was two days before Beltane and the spell was broken.

 


	28. Part V, Chapter 28: Thomas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Beltane, and there's only one thing left to do.

On the evening before Beltane, Jimmy met Thomas in his bedroom. They had not seen each other since they had got back from Scotland, because as soon as Lord Grantham had left Mrs Patmore's room, Jimmy had helped her back to the woods and stayed there to keep an eye on her and to recover from his own long journey. Thomas, meanwhile, had been busily catching up with the work he had missed that still needed to be done.

Tonight, they planned to walk over to the silver birch together so that they would be there when Mrs Patmore did her ritual. Daisy had gone earlier.

They crept out of the house unnoticed. As they passed out of the yard, protected by the darkness - it was past eleven - Jimmy took Thomas's hand.

"Has Grantham given you the money yet?" Jimmy asked as they strolled across the grounds.

"Tomorrow, he says," Thomas replied. "Then you can take Linnea her skin back."

"Good," said Jimmy fervently. "I don't like that woman. Eva's better off without her."

Thomas shrugged noncommittally - he had not thought Marion _so_ bad, but he would not bother to defend her, either.

It was a clear night; Thomas had thought it might rain, but was pleased to see the stars spread out above him. The air was fresh and cold. It was hard to see where they were going, because the moon was still small, but Jimmy's night vision was better and he led Thomas unerringly into the trees. The wood had changed again, just in the few days he had been away. A carpet of bluebells had finally burst into flower, between fern-like plants that Thomas thought might be yarrow, but was not sure.

After a while, Jimmy spoke. "I can't really offer you a house," he said quietly, looking at the path ahead. "But I could manage a roof, and a safe place, and I could teach you how to forage." He met Thomas's gaze, looking fearful. "Is that enough?"

Thomas was touched. He imagined living out here in the woods with Jimmy, year-round, through sunlight and snow, with only the money he had saved and whatever they foraged to eat. It sounded romantic, but cold. "I'll think about it," he promised. "For now, it's enough that you asked it. We'll deal with the rest later."

Jimmy nodded solemnly.

"Don't worry," Thomas soothed. "I love you. I want to be with you no matter where we live."

Jimmy broke into a grin - the grin that made his eyes twinkle - and ducked his head. "We're nearly there," he said, squeezing Thomas's hand. "Can you see them yet?"

Thomas could not, but it was only a few moments until Daisy and Mrs Patmore came into view. Mrs Patmore stood next to a leafless silver birch, supporting herself on one of its lower branches, while Daisy sat on a checked picnic blanket, wrapped in the cloak they had gone to such lengths to procure. Thomas and Jimmy sat beside Daisy to wait.

It was not long until Thomas was rubbing his hands together for warmth; Daisy opened her bag and passed him a mug and a flask. Thomas took them without comment, but was secretly impressed at her forethought.

With his hands wrapped around a warm mug of tea, Thomas watched Mrs Patmore. Her face was shiny and feverish. Her movements were unsteady as she began to circle the tree again and again.

"It's nearly midnight," Thomas observed, after checking his pocket watch. He leaned closer to the ever-warm Jimmy as his tea cooled.

"I know," Mrs Patmore replied. "That's why I'm walking. It's nearly time."

"You won't leave me, will you, Mrs Patmore?" Daisy asked tearfully. "You'll come and visit, or let me visit you?"

"Of course, love," Mrs Patmore replied, pausing briefly in her pacing to ruffle the hair on top of Daisy's head.

Jimmy put his arm around Thomas; Thomas, in turn, put an arm each around his and Daisy's shoulders.

"It's starting…" Mrs Patmore said. She reached out and gripped a solid silvery branch in both hands. At the point of contact, something glowed, white and hot. Thomas had to squint against the light. It was as though Mrs Patmore was creating a star beneath her hands.

Mrs Patmore bent her arms and the branch cracked, breaking off. Both she and the branch collapsed to the woodland floor. Daisy gasped and made to rise, but Jimmy said sharply: "Wait!" Daisy froze, and together they watched as a spark caught at the smallest twig on the broken branch. Slowly at first, silver fire crept along the branch still clutched in Mrs Patmore's hands, then it took hold with greater ferocity. The burnt wood fell to the ground as blackened ashes. In the light of the fire, Thomas saw Mrs Patmore's eyes open.

She suddenly breathed in, then let out a long breath tinged with silver fire as the branch crumbled to nothing. After climbing strongly to her feet, Mrs Patmore let out another long breath, facing the small outer branches of the tree. All at once, the tree burst into leaf, and Mrs Patmore seemed adorned with the same bright green leaves that glowed softly on the tree as though lit from behind by a midnight sun. Thomas could feel the magic thrumming in the air.

For a moment they stood, each as resplendent as the other, then the tree itself seemed to exhale through its branches, and in the breeze every one of the leaves on Mrs Patmore were blown gently away. They floated to the ground, losing their glow, and Mrs Patmore lowered her arms. The hum of magic faded, leaving only an echo in Mrs Patmore and her tree. Thomas knew, without a shadow of doubt, that it had worked.

The wind stirred Mrs Patmore's unbound hair as Daisy rushed towards her, pulling Thomas and Jimmy with her. All four of them embraced, rejoicing, celebrating that because of them Mrs Patmore had everything a faerie wanted - she was free, and she was safe, and she even had friends.

Thomas and Jimmy locked eyes and grinned.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an epilogue to go, and it will be posted next Sunday! Please leave me a comment if you enjoyed :)


	29. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we reach the end of this journey at last! I hope you've all enjoyed. I seem to have lost a heck of a lot of readers since this all started so I'd be very grateful if you could leave me one last comment to let me know whether you liked this story! Thanks for reading!

They sat together in the wood, not talking much. They were just sharing the most precious thing they had: time. Jimmy was leaning against a tree, looking up at the quivering leaves above him. They made the low sunlight dance on his face. Thomas had his back to the same tree. Their sides touched, and Thomas's left hand rested under Jimmy's right, but the curve of the trunk meant that their legs inclined away from each other.

Thomas's gaze was mostly on the book he held open in his lap, but it strayed frequently to watch Jimmy's face, or trail up his bare arm. A slight chill had accompanied the turn of that September day into afternoon, but Jimmy clearly found the weather perfectly balmy; he was shirtless.

The two of them had spent a lot of time that season engaged in similar situations, and it had been one of Thomas's very favourite summers. Lord Grantham's perpetual air of worry had at last dissolved, and his more jovial spirits had rubbed off on the rest of the house, too. The fact that the Abbey won the annual cricket match - largely due to Thomas, in Thomas's own opinion - helped in this regard as well.

Between this and his frequent visits to the wood and the warm presence of Jimmy, Thomas had spent a blissful handful of months.

After the sun set, Jimmy usually floated up through Thomas's always-open bedroom window and they spent the night together on top of his too-warm sheets. Often, however - if Thomas had a day off, or was unlikely to be missed - he sneaked out after his day's work was done to join Jimmy between the trees. Jimmy would pull Thomas's blankets through the air from his bedroom to where they were. Then they spread them out on the dry ground and made a bed wherever they lay.

Gentle fingers stroked Thomas's damaged palm, though the sensation was dulled by the scar tissue. Thomas raised his memory-clouded eyes from the page to see Jimmy smiling at him. Thomas smiled back before asking: "What?"

Jimmy tilted his head and they shared a languid kiss.

When they parted, Thomas found himself wondering: "Would you marry me, if we could?"

Jimmy blinked, his softened expression suddenly becoming more alert. "I thought men could only marry women?"

"That's true - that's why I said _if_ we could," Thomas said in a teasing tone.

The dappled sunlight played on Jimmy's face as he broke into another smile. "Yeah, I would," he answered.

Thomas squeezed Jimmy's hand as emotion overwhelmed him. He had learned to hate weddings, which seemed designed to shut him out and remind him of his differences - but there was something about the permanence of it that calmed his soul when Jimmy gave his answer. "We could have the ceremony out here," he suggested idly. A temple of trees seemed far more appropriate than any building of cold stone.

"Summer solstice," Jimmy put in enthusiastically. "Then we can join the solstice celebrations afterwards and dance and drink in the sun. You should get some of your human friends to come, as long as they bring their own booze. We don't want another Lord Grantham on our hands."

"You know I don't have fr -"

" _Daisy_ would want to come, and so would Anna," Jimmy cut in firmly, and Thomas knew he was right. Thomas was pretty certain Anna already knew about him, though not about Jimmy specifically. He tried to imagine telling her, but the picture wouldn't quite come.

"There'd be flowers everywhere," Jimmy went on. "Would you wear a suit? It might be too hot for you in the summer, though. You need better clothes! And we could have music - I can play the piano for you -"

"Woah, calm down!" Thomas said, surprised by his enthusiasm. "We're just dreamin', right?"

"I want to make it perfect for you, though," Jimmy fretted.

Although Thomas appreciated that, he felt he had to say: "It's not the wedding that's important, it's the marriage."

Jimmy turned and straddled him, pressing a kiss to Thomas's mouth. With considerable determination, he promised: "I'll make _that_ perfect for you, too."


End file.
